ÉÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ January 1994 ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Volume II No. 1 ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ» º º º º º º º º º º º ÛßÛ ÛßÛ ÛßßßßßßÛ ÛßßßßßßÛ ÛßßßßßßÛ ÛßßßßßßÛ ÛßßßßßÛ ÛßßßÛ ÛßÛ º º Û Û Û Û Û Ûßßßßß ßÛ ÛßÛ Û Û ÛßßÛ Û Û ÛßßÛ Û Û Ûßßßß ßÛ Ûß Û Û º º Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û º º Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û º º Û ßßß Û Û Û ÛßßÛ Û Û Û Û Û ßßßß Û Û ßßßß Û Û ßßßßÛ Û Û Û Û º º ßßßßÛ Û Û Û ßÛ Û Û Û Û Û Û ÛßÛ Ûß Û ÛßßÛ Û ßßßßÛ Û Û Û Û Û º º Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û º º Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û º º Ûßßßß Û Û ßßßß Û Ûß ßßß Û Û Û Û ßÛ Û Û Û Û Ûßßßß Û Ûß ßÛ Û ßßßßÛ º º ßßßßßßß ßßßßßßßß ßßßßßßßß ßßß ßßßß ßßß ßßß ßßßßßßß ßßßßß ßßßßßßß º º º º º º ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ º º º º º º º º º º º º ÖÄÄ¿ ÄÂÄ ÖÄÄ¿ Ò Â ÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄ·  ÖÄÄ¿ ÒÄ ÖÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ º º ÇÄÄ´ ³ º ³ º ³ ÇÄÂÙ º º ³ ÇÄÄ´ º º ³ ÇÄ º º Ð Á ÓÄÙ ÓÄÄÙ ÓÄÄÙ Ð ÁÄ Ð ÓÄÙ Ð Á ÐÄÄÙ ÓÄÄÙ Ð º º º º ÖÄÒÄ¿ Ò Â ÒÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄÒÄ¿ ÄÒÄ ÖÄÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄÒÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ º º º ÇÄÄ´ ÇÄ ÇÄÄÙ º ³ ÇÄ º º º ÇÄÄ´ ÇÄÂÙ º ÓÄÄ¿ º º Ð Ð Á ÐÄÄÙ Ð ÓÄÄÙ ÐÄÄÙ Ð ÄÐÄ ÓÄÄÙ Ð Á Ð ÁÄ Ð ÓÄÄÙ º º º º º º Guest Editor: Pedro Sena º º º º º º Editor: Klaus J. Gerken º º Associate Editors: Paul Lauda º º : Igal Koshevoy º º European Editor: Miodrag Djordjevic º º Border Artist: Alicia-michelle Norgaar º º ( Published Issue Only ) º º º º º ÈÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍͼ METAMORPHOSIS ... changes in time, seen through poetry, as only a true heart can appreciate and live with it. This issue is dedicated to Jorge and Luciana .... thank you so much!!! ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ NOTIONS ABOUT LINGUISTICS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ( No‡oes de Lingu¡stica - October 1970 - Jorge de Sena ) ( Translated by George Monteiro ) I listen to my children talk English Not the smallest alone but the older Ones, too, and they the young ones. Born elsewhere, they grew up with Portuguese in their ears. But it's english they speak they who will not be merely americans; melted, they continue to melt in seas not their own. Tell me about poetry's mystery, a tongue's traditions, A race of people, all that is inexpressible save in the untranslatable essence of a people. Bastards. Languages last centuries and will survive even when hidden within other tongues, but they die every day in the stammer of those who inherit them. So immortal are they that a half dozen years suffice to suppress them in mouths dissolving into new shapes, impressed by another people, a different culture. so metaphysical all languages, so untranslatable, that they melt thus, not unto the highest heaven, but into the quotidian crap of another tongue. ßÛß ÛßÛ Û ßßÛßß ÛßßÛ ÛßßÛ ßÛßßÛ Û Û Ûßßß ßßÛßß ßÛß ÛßßÛ ÛßÛ Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û ÛßÛß Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û ßßß ß ßßß ß ß ßß ßßßß ßßßßß ßßßß ßßßß ß ßßß ßßßß ß ßßß ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß PREAMBLE OF A MAN WITH A FEW WORDS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ And so it has been. Amidst a few difficult cultural changes, I have finally figured out how to say a few things in words, where before I felt intimidated. Little did I know that it would be through a few poems that help my own spirit dream, that I would eventually find a thread of communication through which I could learn the english language and make some friends. I have always written. I have numerous diaries, and a myriad of film reviews ( I moderate, and participate in a conference called THE MOVIES for this reason ), and many stories in the form of diaries, short ones, a novel in the works, and many theater plays. Looking back at those writings, I find a young man that was not struggling with what he wants to say, but how he wants to say it, trying ever so hard to find an avenue of communication which might help him find a way to talk to others. Even with all the writing, the chance to put all the learning to work with real people, has never really developed. The atmosphere I grew up in, being the son of a well known gentle giant, was not conducive to a child learning to grow in a different society. Mom couldn't help with the homework. Pop was too busy writing yet another page on his trusty Olivetti. And I was quite lost, watching foreign films by the best directors, hoping the french, italian, and spanish would help me define the english language through the badly translated sub-titles. Indeed, much of my life has been a sub-title to the real thing. I had a rude awakening along the way. I couldn't enter college, right behind the high school due to my poor scores in the entrance exams, on the english side of things. Eventually I got there, but it wasn't easy. At the University of California in Santa Barbara, I took a few film courses, most of them centered on DIRECTING which was my major in the THEATER ARTS. The successes were good. In my final year I had a chance to fight for one "Evening of International Theater" and amidst a Marguerite Duras and Peter Handke short plays, I produced my father's "A MORTE DO PAPA" ( The Death of the Pope ). The animosity, and lack of concern by the ( then ) superiors of the Portuguese and Spanish Department, left a bitter taste in my mouth. I came away feeling that these people had no interest in the literature ( which they taught ) and instead, had much more care for how they wasted the money donated in my father's name. I felt that developing the "arts" was important. Teaching the language to those who didn't have an attraction for the culture ( most were taking it as a requirement for a second language -- and the rest were foreign exchange students ) was their main interest. Did they know the difference.? I don't think so. They had not been the recipients of the cultural upheavals I had already lived through. I graduated and quit again. Continuing the film studies was a difficult undertaking, with no financial resources even though one professor thought I was excellent. I was working nearly forty hours weekly to pay for my tuition and books, directed scenes at night, and studied in the class breaks. It seems no one cared. I moved to the Pacific Northwest, leaving behind a cultural hot bed, where I was also involved in some radio work by providing music from my collection of imports and foreign music. I left all the cultural diversity, away from all the antagonism and shadows of a father figure. Being the son of a god, meant that to all the professorios ( and scholars -- there are good people there ) I was a pain. And to whomever I showed any writing ( already three plays, one screenplay, and several poems ) no one was to even look at it, or acknowledge it, except to this day, Luciana. In one swell foop with a nice one page letter, the dream, the inspiration, the heart was born. She is, to this day, my greatest highlight in a world of competitive and glorified egos which are embraced by the many. Rather than fight an institution, whose stench I didn't like, I left. And in exile, I set about writing with a vengeance, since it was the only way I could satisfy my inner desire and objectives to make my own vision come alive. I learned that a poem read out loud, created so many feelings that it was hard to let go. And no sooner would I get done, another line would appear, and another poem would develop. It wasn't until this past year of 1993, that I finally came to participate in a group of writers, people whose imagery and knack for expression I have come to LOVE so much. I wanted to be a part of it, knowing that the only way new writers could 'make it' was if they stuck together and brought attention to their work. I had always wanted to be a part of such a group, and to celebrate it I created another series of poems which are called THE AETHERIC CAFE, which have not been introduced as yet. We shared our input, and turned the output ( we never really criticized ourselves very much, though I regret playing father to a good friend and writer... ) into scores of words, which made so much music to my ears. This was it. After a few starts, in different places, we had become a set of renegade poets. And this, under the supervision ( are you kidding me..?? ) of KLAUS GERKEN, became the CENTIPEDE. And within those confines I have posted electronically nearly 100 poems, which have been written in the past 6 years. I now average, with this kind of sharing, about one or two poems per week, depending on my moods. The honorable Klaus, had always published his writings. Some of them were in this format here, of an electronic magazine. This is a new form of doing things, and most likely the form of the future. I had enjoyed immensely the words of IGAL KOSHEVOY, and those of Klaus' very own prolific output, and I had enjoyed PAUL LAUDA's words, and several other writers, some of which I had seen in various issues. Klaus decided that I should guest edit one issue. I settled for this one in January, so I would have plenty of time to decide what I wanted to do with it, and perhaps create a new concept in design for the magazine. I did have one idea that I wanted to work with. I wanted to use THE JORGIAN POEMS, which are conversations and dreams I have had with my father I had written several years ago in resolving his effect on me. Most of this material is alocated in dream diaries of mine which are several volumes in length and span nearly ten years. Essentially I kept this issue to unpublished material by a few very special friends and talents. I want to call this issue METAMORPHOSIS, since it was that set of poems which created the turning point for my own father. And it isn't my hope, here, to profess that the Gods shouldn't be mentioned, respected, or forever studied. I revere my father, but quite differently than would be expected, and have dedicated this issue to him. I accept the father as a man with failings who had a talent for writing, but teaching and sharing knowledge and abilities with his children, was not one of them. There are two artists in the family of nine offsprings, and we are both self made, at a terrible cost and price in our private, and physical, lives. A very large thanks of appreciation, goes to Klaus, Igal and Paul and my surrogate family, the Hickersons. The Centipede, is the first ( second actually, Helen comes first ) family that has accepted me for who I am, and I have learned through them to share properly my true feelings, about life, love, poetry and music. Found in this issue are Jan Kingsford and Ruby I. Bender, both not new to the poetic arts. But they have not been, as one would say, properly introduced. Their abilities are there on the tip of the tongue -- Ruby reads it with great aplomb off her memory -- ready to anoint those willing to listen for a few seconds. Jan's ability is much more personal, but nevertheless, just as clear and good. While she feels that her writings are not good enough to match her feelings, we all here seem to agree that there is more to it than she might notice or accept. Michael Stroup, is a song writer and musician of talent and a very special friend, who had to quit the music business in order to raise two very fine young sons. But his ability to get rid of the writing bug failed, and I wanted him to see, personaly, that his work is good, and worthy of being printed and shown. I know he will admire this and it will add to his writing, and to our Centipede a few more songs. If this road is not a chance to publish a little more, at least it will be a strong impetus that will make all of us proud to have written our ( EVER SO ) personal feelings for others to see. It is their very own chance, and mine, to explore the further depths of their souls through the eyes and enjoyment of others.... it's the least they deserve, as lovely weavers of a magickal science, where the placement of one single word, is all consuming, and important, which we call, in English, simply, POETRY... Pedro Sena ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß ÖÄÒÄ· ÖÄ· ÒÄ· Ò ÖÄÄ ÖÄ· ÖÄÄ ÖÄ· ÖÄ· ÖÄ· ÖÄÒÄ· ÖÄÄ ÖÄ· ÖÄÒÄ· ÖÄ· º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º ÇĶ ÇĶ º ÇÄ º º ÇÄ º º º º º º ÇÄ º º º ÓÄ· º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º Ð ½ Ó ÐĽ ÓÄÄ ÓÄÄ ÓĽ Ð ÓĽ ÓĽ Ð Ó Ð ÓÄÄ Ð Ó Ð ÓĽ ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß TABLE OF CONTENTS Publication Page Issue Title ...................................Pedro Sena Notions About Linguistics .................Jorge de Sena Introduction Preamble of a Man with a Few Words.............Pedro Sena Table of Contents When I say...................Jorge de Sena and Pedro Sena Whoever has.................................Jorge de Sena The Minotaur...................................Pedro Sena Whispering Breeze..............................Pedro Sena Ayers Rock Meditation..........................Pedro Sena You Are No Longer A Vision.....................Pedro Sena Together.......................................Pedro Sena The Art of Music, ( Pt 2 Of Course )...........Pedro Sena Special Sound..................................Pedro Sena Sweet Scented Heart Of The Night.( Pt 1 )......Pedro Sena Erin, Erin.......................( Pt 2 )......Pedro Sena Gentle, Radiant and Smiling......( Pt 3 )......Pedro Sena Angels Have A Heart............................Pedro Sena Shauna.........................................Pedro Sena Blindsided.................................Michael Stroup I Feel The Same............................Michael Stroup Miles To Go.................................Jan Kingsford Edgar Allan................................Ruby I. Bender Drying Drops................................Jan Kingsford Manic's Refrain............................Ruby I. Bender Honesty.....................................Jan Kingsford Post Scriptum...............................Klaus J. Gerken Centipede Information ( Published Issue ) Ygdrasil Publications Information Copyright Information WHEN I SAY ~~~~~~~~~~ ( Quanto eu disser - April 1953 - Jorge de Sena ) ( Translated by Pedro Sena - October 1993 ) Quanto eu disser n„o ou‡as quanto eu fizer n„o vejas e, se eu estendo as m„os nao me estendas as tuas. Aceita que eu exista como os sonhos que ningu‚m sonha as imagens malditas que no espelho sao noite irreflectiva. Talvez que ent„o da pura solid„o eu des‡a a vida.  However much I say, don't listen however much I do, don't watch and, if I extend my hands do not extend me yours. Accept that I live like the dreams that no one dreams the cursed images that on a mirror are a night without a reflection. Maybe, then out of pure solitude, I'll come to life. ... ( add on Sept 1993 Pedro Sena ) ... and write a few lines that might lessen a difference between you and I brought on by a language different culture and separate realities where what I say means not much to you, anymore, ( it might have, then, had you read it, who knows ), ... to anyone even, or to the many who might, yet, read a few letters perhaps and ignore them as another folly another selfish act of my own, some mere masturbation in the heart of a hand whose desire to be has been still-born ... until recently. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ WHOEVER HAS.... ~~~~~~~~~~~ ( Quem a tem... -- December 1956 -- Jorge de Sena ) ( Translation by Pedro Sena ) Nao hei de morrer sem saber qual a cor da liberdade. Eu n„o posso sen„o ser desta terra em que nasci. Embora ao mundo perten‡a e sempre a verdade ven‡a qual ser  ser livre aqui nao hei-de morrer sem saber. Trocaram tudo em maldade ‚ quase um crime viver. Mas, embora escondam tudo e me queiram cego e mudo nao hei-de morrer sem saber qual a cor da liberdade.  I shall not die without knowing the color of liberty. I can't but be anything from this earth, where I was born. Though to this world I belong and always the truth wins how will it be, to be free here, I shall not die without knowing. Exchanging every thing maliciously, it is almost a crime to live. But while they hide everything and want me blind and dumb, I shall not die without knowing the true color of liberty. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ THE MINOTAUR ~~~~~~~~~~~~ ( Written in 1988. This poem is a 'reply' to one of my father's best known poems IN CRETE, WITH THE MINOTAUR. ) In Crete, like the minotaur without verses or much life without country, or any spirit with nothing... no one... except my dirty paw, I'll drink my coffee peacefully. I have sat here many days and nights I am told there is such a difference how would I know, I haven't seen much since the day I was born. I've lived here, in total solitude at times peaceful other times frightening, a few horrors enter my mind and some occasionally feed me something, anything, ugly maidens and children sacrifice to the gods, yeah, as if I were an animal which to many, I am, but to me, I can think, feel, cry, and what would you care you are not here with me and haven't seen this this, endless cave, my very home some home. the only one I have ever known. I am a beast of prey a minotaur, the poet tells me, my only visitor, and I need to have some benefits for life except the decisions were made a long time ago that I should stay here incarcerated by the ideals which befall your ways. I was born, half a man, half an animal and to this day do not know why I am treated so harshly. Don't men and animals all live together? Aren't they a part of a large world? Somewhere? But I am an aberration of the union of the right and wrong feelings. My ancestors talk of such there were bulls and erections, there were swans and soft beds, there were horses and great lovers, there were birds great flyers, and how could anyone not expect some odd results here and there? Were I maimed, deaf, dumb and blind, what's the difference, a minotaur, but no, after all is said and done your lust is satisfied you forget the result forget yourself and all that mattered was your pleasure that became my pain. These days there are humans many more of them children of unsatiated lust, who think they aren't animals, all of them, anymore, but man and women a part of the kingdom, some lands that I never have seen. Many times I sit here and talk with my only visitor ... and tutor, about justice, and philosophy. And he brings me coffee that's what he calls it, it tastes great and better than the piss streams I find here, and there in the depths of these caves. He's asked me not to fear, or judge, to forget all the ugly past, and grudge the mistakes that time made me a beast and has to answer for, soon, in the least in full, for its error and sad neglect and allow me some love, a bit of respect. He's a good man of lines and letters I can't write like, yet, like he tatters you see, I have no fingers in my paw with which to recommend a very new law which may find room for man and a bull and close the book of errors in full. And I tell him the stories of the feasts and how all the women ran naked and wild attacking men and anything like beasts in ways that are now unusual, and not mild showing everybody how they all were so virile and capable of making this earth so fertile in its proper season ... as a bull, I have a long prick and few people desire less of it and us... the stupid beasts of talented arousal know nothing of refusal and arousal and to our share, must live like a beast and have our members hardened, for some men ... old men ... who hope for yet another lift to support their old body before they die ... but I haven't asked the poet why me... and the dirty paw ... scent of a whore, maybe ... stains from the poet's ink and pen ... maybe he feels as alone as I do and as he writes, he can't help notice all the weakness, and faults and hopes of correcting it all being that I have no chance to fix any law, anything and will eventually die for the errors of it all. He says that it will be remembered through all the thick and thin minds until it be known we all murdered the hopes, the dreams, the love, from our very own lives... I know not what I would do without the poet's heart to soothe my weary mind. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Whispering Wind ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (Writted Dec 11,1988) A whispery breeze of wind, slipped by me, ... I barely noticed, ... but I stood there, on this desert island, amidst land, dried land, waiting for another... whisper... from that scintillating mother, ... of pearl,... of life,... whose sweet and moist kiss, brings life to the inert body, that is dry,... ... and thirsting,... for nourishment,... yeah, life,... amidst this desert, arid,... and desert land. And another whispery breeze, shook me, ... out of my slumber, out of my long dream, of waiting, ... and nourished me, like,... like,... another sweet kiss of life, yes,... it did feel like, life,..real life. Out here,... in the desert,... we live,... we, manage to live, in spite of all odds, and manipulations of our nature,... or heart,... or heat,... yes, we live, and dream, to see another sunset, as the dawn slips by, on my side and I draw, my slight petals in, for warmth,... perhaps to sleep,... to be awakened later,... by,... another whispery breeze of wind, that will slip by me, and take me away, ... and I guess, out here, in the desert lands, there is nothing else to say, ... except,... it was such a long time away,... and, oh yes, and then, another whispery breeze of that wind just kissed me aw...... ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Ayers Rock ~~~~~~~~~~ January 12, 1993 That we shall all connect despite creed, love or sect and join together in this flight to meet true love in its height. Near a rock are we today as we sit, and lovingly pray the words, the feelings of a care which teaches, praises, we bear. ... the life of true spirit being like god, and capable of seeing wishing its care to be taught lest it be wasted in thought. As we gather here in real life let us set apart always the strife and help end any, and all distrust into the night of ugly disgust, let us this day accomplish all deeds of healing and bliss and take it back to all our friends to help a world, in its many amends. Amen ( and enjoy the rock by all means! ) ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ You... Are No Longer A Vision, or a Poem. ~~~~~~~~~ August 4, 1989 ( Written after a series of visions and meditations ) You, ... are no longer a vision. ... Or a poem. There was a day, and many a night, of wonder, of hope, of waiting, and perhaps of expecting,... and, I have often felt, ..'what daring'.. have I, to stand and think, much less,... even more, write a poem, of hope, prayer like, that one day this will all come to happen, somehow, amid all the daily ... events ... and rotten repercussions of doubt and belief, some mine, most by others, that, ... somehow, in some way, I would one day stand up across your path, and blatantly tell you, that, ... I loved you. And you might say, ... do you know me? ... And I'll say, ... what is there to know, that can't be proved by your being, and, standing here, ... I had to grow, you had to see, I had to learn, you had to be, and now, as the end of the past nears, ever so softly, I can finally see your eyes, truly, ... fully, ... and feel what can't possibly ever, be felt by many, but the lucky few, ... chosen ones, ... yes,...You, ... are no longer a vision. Or even a poem. And from my dream of our climb along the many splendour'd shaft of light shall the truth of truths forever be born, that no one can ever cast a side glance of doubt over the power of hope, or of love, and of care, ... (yes, I have cared,.) ... and of trust, Oh yes, trust, that indomitable faith, which can make or break all of us into worthless,unhappy beings whose desires are masters of oblivion, and reality is but a shadow of what it all could and should, ... forever be. Sure it was hard. And, it was painful. But worth it. For in one second, all that ever was, only but a vision, perhaps a hope or two, and a wondrous sight, is now, so true, so clear, so perfect, and so inspiring, that I'm not sure that there even exist in this unfathomable idea of eternal time and space, enough ink and lead to describe you, ... or ... enough notes, scales and instruments to,.. to surround you, ... or ... enough paints and canvases to delineate you, ... which will truly describe the feelings not even a second long of a vision within a vision which is, an incarnate truth, ... a specialized moment, ... of unbearable joys, ... when all time stands still, ... and shines,... like only the sun ever can and will, oh yes, it shines,... ever so brightly,... hot, desireable, when it finally can be said, once and for all, ... You ( my dear) ... Are no longer a vision. ... Or, even, just another poem. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Together ~~~~~~~~ October 1993 Together we embraced each other. Didn't seem enough even when naked, with your warm, gentle body your smooth skin the velvet touch the slim arms the many times when we came together to celebrate our meeting of mind, of bodies, of soul, and further yet, of spirit, when the two energies meet, and no longer side by side but together as one, one source one energy one new form of life, of love, of a special care which I have hoped for and dared think that you would, as well, and accept this man with his heart in his palms and his poems in his hands as a part of your being one he could have one he could enjoy a feeling he wanted to share with you, ... maybe a need, on occasion a desire, maybe even a demand, ... ... but not without full heart to share the warmth and our little desire some small lust for life and living the kind only spoken of dreamed about more often than not totally forgotten amidst our daily lives where love is just another word or argument. No, none of that stuff. Together we embraced each other in an unspoken desire to be together further still within and without the body. And together we came both our bodies bathed in sacred sweat a sign of the intense love of god, not lust until we knew we were experiencing something so exciting so beautiful we couldn't talk about it the energy flew it danced it jumped it flew it ran it went it came it swirled stirring a slight breeze that only a true spirit can ever feel the kind that we want rarely find ... I never wanted it to end, what was a holy union so meaningful to the few who have met the spirits of the heart ... and dared share their total soul with nothing else absolutely nothing else between them. Together we embraced each other yet again ... because it was right yes, it was alright, and we had finally found each other and were then able to feel each other alive truly alive. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ The Art of Music ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Part 2, Of course. Music is the guiltiest rhythm in my life. It has made me what I have wanted to become, although my immediate family would rather I let go of the inane wonderings and transmutations I live to enjoy it. With it, I have become an artist of the heart, and learned to feel what has created most of my visual imagery. Many times, during upheavals, or moments of depression and inner disarray, my only drug that works, is music. It has never failed to lift me unto another world, and many nether spheres somewhere in this universe, of the mind. It is the endless realm, the only one of the kind I have ever met. And the realm I cherish and love like no one I have ever met, or wished for. And this special love has taught me not to differentiate between the bourgeois styles of music and the proletarian snobbish ways of listening to it. Regardless, both musics accomplish the same thing, though they may use a different road. There was a time when I was going to learn the piano, but the teacher had as much talent for teaching as the worst teacher we have ever met. Or at least, she never tried to tell the child that one had to learn a few things first, so he could eventually learn how to emulate what he was hearing, and figure it all out. All in all, I think all of the children were 'encouraged' ( fun thing to know -- so nice -- you play so well, but don't make it a career -- we already have one bum here ) to learn something about music, but none of us had the gall to stick to it and one day stand in the limelight to either sink or swim. In that time, music was something which was seen, and occasionaly heard on the radio. When we went to Brazil, my father was finaly able to buy a record player, and his collection started, and increased to almost 3,000 albums. I started my own collection of unusual things, ecletic tastes, which my father also had in his collection. At one point I had over 3,000 albums as well as the knowledge of classical music. Together we had over 6,000 different albums of music. I ventured to give my father a TOMITA album, to which he graciously replied "..very nice..", though I think his idea of electronic music by that time was more along the cold lines of Stockhausen and Heinemman, than they should be of a japanese artist trying to do one of his favorites, Debussy. My musical tastes had expanded. I still tend to like the sound that is more symphonic, and almost always aim for mood and any creation of imagery, which I long for for every minute of my life. It doesn't matter to me if it is created by an orchestra, or a synthesizer, or if it is created by a single voice, or a teaspoon. All of my tastes lean towards what is known as 'avant garde', 'experimental', or even ( heaven forbid ) 'electronic'. These are labels which I do not accept, but people are generaly afraid to like something which is not the norm, or the pattern in the radio speakers, or in the ears of their friends. Regardless, all of it is an inspiration to what I tend to consider a rather empty and lonely life, where I have found that love is another lyric in a song, or just another word in a plastic sign with a few colors around it, and a good relationship on all levels is impossible, and another dream to be found. I find it difficult to build a consensus on music. To me, the feeling closest to mine WHILE creating a poem, or a new story, or another screenplay, all for the sake of using excess wasted paper and electricity, is that of listening to a piece of music that just dares you to close your eyes and go along with it. This is what I live for. And there are times when I wish to write a few lines about those visuals which a specific piece of music has given me, but rarely have I succeeded at it, and I think I figured out why. One is that the original composer of the piece has an idea, or theme, sub-conscious or otherwise, and is trying to get it across. The other is that I am also a living entity, who is experiencing the music, but also has his own wavelength to follow up on. The difference between these two is massive, and prevents me from concentrating long enough to write about it. But there are benefits. I have learned to let these moments live for the duration of the piece, and enjoy a heck of a movie, be it mine, or the composer's. And there are certain pieces of music, TANGERINE DREAM's Mysterious Semblance At The Strand Of Nightmares that always manage to command direct attention, and they defy me to listen and fly away with it, rather than bother writing... I have never been able to describe that non-euclidean space, and its colors and vibrations in any form which was satisfying enough for me. I've been told that all this means that I am a natural musician, with untold capabilities. To that end, I occasionaly strut my trusty Fender Bass, and have in my agenda a plan to get a very good synthesizer and midi system ( my weakness is keyboards ) with the hopes of developing some more music. While I can't exactly play Chuck Berry very well ( it is simple enough ), I can compose pieces of music that allow me some inner space, to which I can easily write lyrics or a poem, depending on my mood. I have been assuming that this is another implementation in my tapestry of creativity. The instrument allows me to enter, easily, into a specific inner space where taking notes and writing is effortless. I have also been told that my poetry is very musical. I attribute it to two things. One, quite often, not as much as I used to, I am listening to some music. This also helps in other ways. For example, the poems dedicated to Erin, were a perfect example of a similar inspiration. We were in conversation and ANTHONY PHILLIPS' Slow Dance was playing behind us. During a special moment she noticed the music and it brought tears to her eyes ( hopefully not sad .. ) and the lucidity of that moment went on to create several poems. The memory of that one moment in time of that lovely lady has become such a steady force of inspiration for me, than I could imagine. And I hope to have the chance, one day, to find out why the music was so sad for Erin, or was it just a memory of something so good, that didn't work. The other thing happens to be that the only feeling which I can relate to in any art is a fluidity which I can only explain with the sensuality of music, which one could say is something which I long for. And when I describe it, it seems to come off fluid and musical. More often than not, these days, I write in silence, since almost all of my work is dependent on listening to myself, and paying special attention to my inner visuals that develop so fast and frequently. And the less I am distracted, the better my ability to stay with it and transcribe the inevitable hieroglyphics. The clearer the visualization, the more detailed, the more fluid, all these images appear in the paper. Not a bit of this process has anything to do with THINKING. It is merely a 'frozen moment in time' which I have learned to gather long enough in my field/vision screen, until I have had a chance to write it, or tape into a small recorder. In many ways, this is a process derived from my experiences in transcendental meditation. I have even been told that much of my poetry is PSYCHOTROPIC in nature, which I consider a compliment, and attribute it to my living of each special moment, through a few lines and words. I never thought that Aldous Huxley, Carlos Castaneda, Luis Bunuel and Salvador Dali would ever meet, but if there is a moment, here they are sharing a cup of tea, or their favorite wine. There is a special flow, if there is such a thing, which keeps me busiest. It is music to my heart, and it generates a feeling which very few things in my life have ever done, from any inspiration to any one single person. There isn't a single piece of music or a woman, that has ever been so exciting as the special moment when a line like, You, are no longer a vision... or, a poem. and the ensuing sequence of images which follows, that I have ever seen... or, sweet scented heart of the night ... when an eternal flame and desire for a perfect muse, a real love, is always lit into a stupor of romantic notions and visions. Yes, I do write for a dream I have not dreamt yet. Yes, I do write for a love that has not met a vision, or vice versa. Yes, I do write for a peace that is not here which feels incomplete, or cut in half. A moment of sharing, soothing, several tears in an oasis of dry, deserted sandy dunes, tears no one will ever seem to hear or have the ability to feel. In many ways, I live for these moments for they are all I have found, and at this point will gladly die for them. In this, I do differ from my father. He had no chance to be a romantic, as his life pegged him to a pair of shoes he didn't like ( I don't wear shoes by the way ) and a life of servitude to a thankless system of education which killed him, though I admit that I am very proud of the level to which his ability has been admired. I look at it all, as UNFINISHED. I may yet die the eternal young man in love, hoping his Juliet will still appear and dance, or paint, or love, one more time, in her own special way, just so I can create yet another refrain to keep her remenbered forever. Maybe I'll write for her to paint. Music led me to all my visions, dreams, which I had to harness in one way or another. It was trancendental meditation which taught me to appreciate much of these moods, and at the same time enjoy something which is inexplicable. I can't even write about all the FIBERS, COLORS, and STRANDS OF ENERGY I meet in those travels, or have ever found a language good enough to translate them with. There just aren't enough words available for such an undertaking. I try to place these images in a poetic format, because there are no other viable forms which I have found that helps describe a feeling with one word. POETRY, then, is the best language, with which I can express so many images, and keep them moving since they are always moving, in such an easy fashion. I take it that if I were a musician, I would do the same thing with a string, or wind instrument, or a few keys. If I were a painter, there would be so many layers that one would never know where to start looking at the piece. Through meditation, and writing is really a form of it, I have learned to increase the level of awareness, both inner and outer, in order to be able to see it all a bit longer, which I have been able to store in a buffer, long enough until I have worked with it. In many cases it is ready, and I barely make any changes, with the exception of a few words here and there. The spacing of the words is a factor of the feeling depths and their ministrations of my visual imagery. All in all, I find there is no difference between music and me. Together we resonate as one, and express ourselves likewise with our specific tools. The music comes through the instruments while my images born out of the etheral space play via my hand, through a pen, or computer keyboard, into the eyes of those who will enjoy it, regardless of rhyme or reason. I can't think of a better way to live, or even conceive of living without any music, the spacious heart of the soul, expressed in such a meticulous way... as to the personal hopes, that remains to be seen. October 1993 ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Special Sound ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ September 17, 1993 Special sound Methodical Vibration weaving a color thread thru a space an eternity ... to reach somewhere ... in time ... a feeling ... perhaps an illusion of love, hate, even a thought of ... that wants to tell you something anything maybe nothing but, that you should experience in its fullness al of its secrets languages notes fingers deciphered as a form of energy that we call sound made a hand who felt it all deeply the vestiges of its truth, the dharma of its heart, the rings of its energy, the pain of its body, the life in its death, the living of its day ... for a mere second that reaches you and touches you somehow don't even know how, in yet another minute feeling making you shiver inspiring you one more time before it moves on to another oracle another time endlessly, endlessly, but forever, ... and it will never die it is a special sound such a special feel glowing in your space it is a life of its own on its own way..... ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Erin ~~~~ August 7, 1993 AM Scented heart in the night lives, loves, learns, cries seemingly alone, staring away looking for a sky of thought ... breathe, breathe in that air take, absorb, nature's care, and tell me o'your loud dream so I can write more, scream occasionally ... when virtue fails my sight scented heart o' the night live, talk to me, and cry all the beauty you see, try 'til I can no longer take it, hide, write, or even fake it, that, that, ... there's feeling in my heart that I see, tears me apart ( not your fault ) and it can always be shared if we could, and only dared ... to forget a past, forever till a new dawn comes e'er to show the scented heart o' the night lives here, shines so bright and will light such sweet face w'lines of love, and grace. ... ( thanks for the inspiration ) ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Erin, Pt 2 ~~~~~~~~~~ August 21, 1993 ( The music playing is Anthony Phillips' SLOW DANCE Pt 1.) Erin, erin, erin sweet and scented heart that has been living in much darkness, awake, awake, ( I whisper one more time ) awake, for there is yet another song which can be shared and could be danced to before it is all said and done forgotten on the way to be forgiven. A long sad, life, of a shattered dream that didn't exist but left you hurt, and with heavy heart, please awake, here's a kiss just plain warmth simple care to you, a little love, a lot of feeling, some desire, which can be shared as friends, even, for much good, should ( could ) it be possible? That in your heart, you could give your vision another chance, before you lose that sweet scented heart into the deep dark night, of our memories, of nothing, nothing, the darkest space of all, no love, no cares. Erin, Erin, erin, Awake. You, the inspiring muse, where your love lives, not in fantasy, but in reality, in life, at least where you can also gain a seedling of respect a few measures of love some pain, yes, but also some more, developing your desire that has been hurt rarely appreciated, often dismissed, but ( for me ) never forgotten ever felt many times wanted I wish it were possible rather than a horrible dream, out of frustration with a few more lines, of adulation. Sweet, and e'er so sweet scented heart of the night full of stars we see, meet, make it all, desire, and might to find it, to learn it, to love it, to share it, to nurture it, to care for it, so it can be told in a few lines full of words with few actions ( except in the mind's ) that there is out there in those stars spread amidst this universe one person who cares, and, will gladly share it all with you. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Erin, Pt 3 ~~~~~~~~~~ October 1993 ( The music playing is Anthony Phillips' Slow Dance Pt 2 ) Gentle, radiant, smiling, you take yourself far And as you sway, the doors open, the windows ajar The winds behind you, colorfully tender breeze Caressing you, like a feather with such soft ease. Life is rough, we can be rougher, and you'll survive Yet to the end, we all have, and shall to see, arrive Then, you'll see all you have been through and done Loved, hated, cared, failed - more and then some, We'll show you Your experience has been worthwhile To you To us As you learned And grew And became A vision no, no, no, A person To a poet of few words Hidden behind the many numbers A man with some letters A human with such heart A spirit of a little care A soul with desire ... It isn't always the battle it seems The efforts we push forth and endure But with a few smiles, loving whims You'll yet sway, through the sure and true clear path you have wove. Nothing like a little inspiration for a poem of heart and no soul But with love and true radiation I give it to you in a plain round bowl ... while a fish in a glass still pouts ... and we watch ... I did, and wanted to meet you ... a feeling of freedom you, to share a scent of air you, to give a tender mercy you, to feel a gentle breeze you, to touch a gentle skin you, to whisper ... yet another poem from this lonely heart into a life ... a hope to live a chance to survive a need to give a hope to inspire ... a few thoughts into a face that has beauty in it somewhere hidden behind much but not enough, such that one can not see what is there ready to appear at anytime and in all truth really should BE. ( thanks for the inspiration ) ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Angels Have Heart ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ April 1987 ( For Vina ) All angels have a heart for us all to see let it show, then, all its glory, shine, be, .... dive, splash, woosh, and our hearts carry the wings, a blancket for you and I to sleep in, with some warm air or a coolish breeze from the earth's thicket and we live on, with many tasks to bear. .... dive, splash, clean, turn, then, take me away, the feathers so soft, sound so pretty appear, disappear, and fly so gently until the time we have them not and feel empty and that loneliness appears and our heart cries again ... the missing beat nears we look to the sky away from here hoping to find .... dive, splash, swish, run, fly, and caress, softly, with me. The flight is so high the dive is quite pure your heart will clean much pain, fear, hurts, anger you'll find a cure and many shall feel free once again to dance in that hall where his legs and feet stand and await you to shine, and never to fall ( or fail ). dive,... splash,... run,... fly away,... and here we stand and watch such beauty such care, such love, that few know or will ever understand, or desire. We have been together and have shared it all from the loveliest wing to the greates heart of them all. and yes, I do miss that heart yes, I do. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Shauna Shauna ~~~~~~ August 21, 1993 ( For Shauna ) Cuddled, we slept, your back to me, tucked in next to me, my arm around you my right hand, on your left breast, and I could feel a heart palpitate, quietly, smoothly, writing a song, spelling a dream, perhaps a vision, the feel of that heart, so soothed my life made it easier to live, simpler to hear, you... you moved a little there was a sound in the large window right in front of us, amidst the spring green of the early morning, stood a deer rubbing its nose against the glass you got up, ohh the emptiness of your departure hit me like a thunder, the arms were cooler, the warmth cooled and you naked and free moved your body, ever so gently, ever so quietly, to the window as the deer watched carefully took a few steps then returned to the window. Your presence was stronger, and it knew you. You passed the table, grabbed the cereal and walked slowly quietly, breasts swaying secretly, lightly towards the window, you made a few sounds, the deer's ears perked up, I had heard these before, right here, it understood you, because it didn't move, somehow it knew, somehow it just knew. You opened the window slowly I could see a silhouette perfectly, short well proportioned smooth, beautifull a painting, but alive and with feeling. As the window slid upwords, the deer steped back. You poured some cereal on your hand brought it to your mouth kissed it ate a little then, sloftly, gently stretched your arm holding the food holy meal to the curious animal who immediately moved forward and began eating out of your hand, it's peace was clear, its ears moved slowly, but only when needed, no fear now, its love alive its thankfulness near the amount on your hand was done the animal licked your palm, and looked at you and moved closer, took a few licks of your wrist, arm, neck, you smiled, it wanted more food, it kissed your face, you laughed a little and poured some more food on your hand and the deer ate it gladly. Then it suddenly moved away, it scampered quickly, as we heard some bustling in the bushes, you never moved, you must have known, and soon, some little ones appeared. You sat down on the window sill, garcious movement, and you fed them all, until they were full satiated, thankfull and rubbed their little heads on your leg, on your arm on your smooth body on your heart as if suckling for milk ... I got up, came to the window ever so slowly the animals were no longer afraid, they knew you, trusted me. I brought them a little more food, and patted their soft fur, their attentive ears their slight foreheads the mom kissed my hand for some more and I gave her some. Alas, out of food, we patted them again wished them well. Shauna and I kissed, mouth to mouth, body to body, soul to soul, spirit to spirit, I then kissed her eyes I kissed her forehead, all under the eyes of our gallery of beasts, and I kissed that beautifull body that ached for peace in the animal kingdom for a life in the wild for a dream of total freedom, and we made love, right there, by the window, with the curious eyes watching, laughing and occasionaly nibbling my back. We went back to bed satisfied, satiated free, happy shauna cuddled me kissed a thank you turned cuddled tighter grabbed my right arm and covered her figure with it and then tucked it on her left breast over her heart and I, once again listened to the heart beat of a life there was a little rustling in the wind and I knew that our blessed beasts were gone, gone for today, but this moment never, ever will. (c) Copyright Pedro Sena 1993. All Rights Reserved ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ BLINDSIDED ~~~~~~~~~~ Someone speaks Across the room A sobbing voice breaks Love soaked days and nights Cancelled by fear Of repeating mistakes ... And I was - Blindsided I didn't even see it coming Can't fight it Before I hit the ground You were already running away. ( bridge ) It don't get any clearer than this Believe it like the taste of a goodbye kiss. I was blindsided Nothing I can say or do Will it right You won't come around And I'm already fading away ... One morning All alone with someone who cares Without warning The fabric of reality tears ... And I was - Blindsided I didn't even see it coming Can't fight it Before I hit the ground You were already running away. -- Michael Stroup ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ I Feel the Same ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I carved your name In the desk The first time I saw you In gradeschool And I carved a heart In a tree - By the brook Where I walked with you For the first time Read you a poem That did not rhyme. And I felt the shame In my heart The first time I lied to you And like a fool I made you cry Over me - In the park Where I talked to you For the last time Spoke of my life Oh, but I wasn't in time. ( instrumental verse ) In the life Where we thought we knew We were in love I didn't realize It's never enough. And I feel the same On this day As I did the last time I kissed you And I felt your hair On my face - On the lake Where the full moon light Made your eyes shine you gave me your love I gave you mine. And I feel the same Baby, I do I feel the same Darlin', don't you? -- Michael Stroup ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Miles to Go ~~~~~~~~~~~ I drove across the flat farm land in the purpling evening, speeding past memories of grandparents, kitchen pumps and cottontails, to say goodbye. Silhouettes of cornfields and grain elevators settled against the remains of the parting sun as it painted the sky in a childhood vision of sunsets, pink rays fanning into the heavens as the stench of manure and feedlots coated the air. And there you were, wearing a quiet smile that spoke of the secret you finally knew. I stood and caressed the red of the flag that covered you and shared our communal silence of love one last time, staring at your hands no longer shaking no smoking cigarette dripping ashes.... but still your hands, overwhelmed with love for this prison that was yours, and wished you farewell. -- Jan Kingsford ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Edgar Allan ~~~~~~~~~~~ I dig and hoe get seeds and sow And water them and watch them grow If I don't do this I know My gardens will no color show My soul will surely fill with woe can't stand and chat I gotta go And get the shovel and the hoe And till the earth and start to sow And plant some flowers tall and low And water them and watch them grow And dream about the color show No I'm running out of time I'm running out of words that rhyme Too bad the key word here is "hoe" Sounds like this verse was penned by Poe! -- Ruby I. Bender ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Drying Drops ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Dreams run down my windowpane, drying drops of summer rain. My heart chatters endlessly, restlessly on, telling it's stories from dusk till dawn. It calls to you and sighs your name, the echoing silence wounds and maims. Trying too hard to be seen and heard stumbling, tumbling on just one word. Trying to free my hearts desire, caught in a choking muddy mire. Please be the wings for my dreams to fly, don't let them flutter, sputter and die. Your words speak truths my heart can hear quelling and quenching the nameless fear. Let the river of your vision overflow my banks, let me sing you a song of joy and thanks. -- Jan Kingsford ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Manic's Refrain ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Have you tried the Lithium Haldol and Navane too Tranzenem Thorazine, Triavil Elavil or Prolixin just to name a few - - Well if you have, you may join this refrain By and large all reek havoc And not only with oyur brain Though professing to stabilize In truth they mostly paralyse Both mind and limb your body through and through. Though some appear to thrive on these legalized meds Most patients plead for mercy as they stagger towards their beds Now it's time for Dekapote; is this another sour note? I won't know until tomorrow; Will tomorrow be too late? Is this just one more failure or - - Will it rehabilitate? -- Ruby I. Bender ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Honesty ~~~~~~~ A moment of truth held in a bar of soap, Synchronicity's song in a health food store. Aching heart reaches out and talks of the warmth of a marmalade sun. An hour later the owner of the heart stands in a store, holding in her hand a bar of soap whose label wants you to imagine yourself in a Portugal orange grove an a bright summer morning. Marbled orange, color and scent, spicy sweet, it calls itself "Portuguese Breakfast" and it whispers truths to the aching heart. And the aching heart remembers, listens, understands. Remembers anger flashing, concealing the pain. Other voices raised, other battles joined, the aching heart retreated licking and picking it's wounds. A poetic voice, offered as a branch of understanding was heard through wounded ears and scarred heart, wounding other ears, scarring other hearts. Of all the raised voices, the source of her pain was silent and she shivered, cold, behind her walls. Listens to the sound of breaking silence, breaching walls, a poetic voice handing her anger back to her calmly and quietly, wrapped in love, tied up in understanding. Understands the sad silence that has wrapped her aching heart, the mist of tears that has blurred her landscape, muffling her pain, disguising the truth. And standing in a store, holding a bar of soap, the marmalade sun breaks through the mist, steam rises from the wet ground, a miasma of love ignored, love denied. And in the clearing sky, the aching heart realizes, the aching heart sees, the aching heart knows. The aching heart is falling in love. -- Jan Kingsford ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ÑÍ͸ ÕÍ͸ ÕÍ͸ ÕÍÑ͸ ÕÍ͸ ÕÍ͸ ÑÍ͸ ÍÑÍ ÑÍ͸ ÕÍÑ͸ Ñ Ñ ÕÍÑ͸ ÆÍ; ³ ³ ÔÍ͸ ³ ÔÍ͸ ³ ÆÍѾ ³ ÆÍ; ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ Ï ÔÍ; ÔÍ; Ï ÔÍ; ÔÍ; Ï ÏÍ ÍÏÍ Ï Ï ÔÍ; Ï Ï Ï ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ THE MINOTAUR ~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Minotaur After a long Long journey home Lies asleep In his lair With his eyes closed Afloat on a dream That his Exhaustion airs A dream of a Girl so young As he is old With mushroom eyes And hair so wild Lost and alone The minotaur Stirrs in his lair He sighs for her A dream which forms Each single tear That's gathered here Throughout the years Throughout all time Tangled with vines A dark lament His heart has wrent A tear which has Repeated that "I loved so much And how I loved And who I loved And why I loved No one can know" The minotaur stirrs In his lair He sighs for her The Minotaur After a long Long journey home Lies asleep In his lair With his eyes closed And a thorn that's lodged Within his side A tear extracted from His gentle eye So with his heart bled dry Beneith the sword Of Thesius He howls and cries For want of love For want of life A life that is But now a dream A life that still Retains the lie But once this dream Revealed the truth How two were one But now no more It's just a dream As any dream A penalty Where death becomes The Labyrinth Lost love exposed The Minotaur After a long Long journey home Reclaims his lair Reclaims his love Reclaims what's there The minotaur After a long Long journey home Dies... Coda ~~~~ The minotaur Stands by her side Protects the light That shines on her... -- Klaus J. Gerken ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ÉÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ» º A New Age: The Centipede Network Of Artists, Poets, & Writers º ÇÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄĶ º - An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9310] º ÇÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄĶ º (C) CopyRight "I Write, Therefore, I Develop" By Paul Lauda º ÈÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍͼ 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]. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ CENTIPEDE ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ A Professional Mailing NetWork ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ European Edition Notes - A  or   - Welcome to Centipede, a Professional Mailing Network. Modem or Otherwise Centipede, was created by the effort of Paul Lauda and a very special group of friends, with the intent to encourage the sharing and distribution of poetic material. It was our feeling, THEN, and it is, NOW, that there are certain things in life which should be treated with honest feeling, and not be censored, because it might have one word, or one feeling which someone did not like. When we first started, we centered ourselves around POETRY. But, no sooner were we ready to go on the phone lines, we all also wanted a few other things to enjoy and share. Immediately a few other MESSAGE BASES were added to the Network, to appease the needs and interests of the several members who helped place this on the map. All in all, we find that we are a group of dedicated lovers of art, and specially the beauty of the art of writing. And it wasn't long before we found out that we differed from others.... we revered POETRY. And before we knew it, it was being posted in French and Portuguese, with the help of a few friends in Europe. We had done it.... our vision was so international, and so open that we had done what the major networks of mail had not been able to do... communicate and share our true thoughts, through the purity of words. And it was exciting to find that other people spoke of this language as the dream eye'd language of the 'poet Shakespeare and my dear beloved Emily Dickinson'... The CENTIPEDE, at this moment, houses mostly POETRY, and is in the process of handling several other MESSAGE BASES, which allow for us to meet, and find, the needs of the main menbers of the network, and appease the needs of the readership. We remain dedicated to the art of writing, and poetry in special, but have given in to Pedro Sena's request that they place a FILM CONFERENCE, since he is such an avid seer of foreign film, and an able reviewer himself. If he ever wondered what his reviews of foreign films, returning to those countries, will ever do fof him, he will not have long to wait. This is the exciting time for those involved with the CENTIPEDE. We are in our growing stages, and still looking for a few more nodes on the European continent. The development of CENTIPEDE has created a complete new set of ideas and possibilities, which no doubt this issue is but a test. Pedro wished to have this issue also available in a PUBLISHED FORMAT, so he could send it to various literary sources and connections he feels he may have in Europe. Pedro believes that this could open up a complete new avenue for the handfull of participants in the YGDRASIL, not to mention a heck of a lot more work for KLAUS GERKEN. Pedro would also like to reach the many professors, and academics, which he has known and met through out his life, and try to secure a connection, which he has missed. He's not sure this will work, altogether perfectly, but he knows that even if it is all ignored, he will have helped develop something new and different, and added another dimention to it. The editorial versions of this issue are different, in each issue. We are assuming that the MODEM readers, are not quite the same as those who will purchase the PUBLISHED ISSUE. We felt that the different audiences might require the separate note sections in the end of the issue to make it all work right, and to have them reach us... Thus, you may read this issue, without some of these notes, over a BULLETIN BOARD SYSTEM, which is almost all pure TEXT and no frills. The only glare you will get is from the monitor you are looking at. Or, you can acquire the PUBLISHED VERSION, through YGDRASIL PRESS, and then sit back and enjoy the border art work of Alicia-michelle Norgaar, with the poems set within those boundaries. It creates another atmosphere that requires a cup of coffee, or tea, in your hand. At any rate, CENTIPEDE and YGDRASIL hope that they have interested you in the concept, and that they have succeeded in getting you involved in their endeavour, which is to create a solid, SOLID, forum for writers and poets, the world over. We have already seen poetry in a couple of labguages POSTED on the Bulletin Boards... now we are awaiting the rhythms of languages we haven't yet met.... through you. CENTIPEDE, would like to have your patronage, and would like to make sure you can see for yourself what it is we are about. We may give us a call, the nodes and numbers listed below, we will gladly find a way for you to interact with us. Thank You Peter, Paul, John, George, Igal, Klaus, Ringo et al.. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ CENTIPEDE ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ A Professional Mailing NetWork ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ European Edition Notes This is the list of the CENTIPEDE nodes, for you.... we hope to hear from you.... if you leave us a note, the SYSOP ( * ) will let us know you asked, and we will get back to you..... Surreal BBS * Marcus Breese * 219-262-9371 User Friendly BBS * Don Shackelford * 317-784-8401 Bitter Butter Better BBS * Tom Almy * 503-620-0307 Mandate Systems BBS * David Empey * 519-862-5663 The Exchange * Chuck Blaisdell * 609-259-9267 Revision Systems * Paul Lauda * 609-896-3256 Top Cat BBS! * Gerard C. Johnson * 813-885-5797 Synapse BBS * Daniel Coulombe * 819-246-2344 The Brampton Free Zone * Mike Stafford * 905-840-2176 The Database Warehouse * Mel Molder * +49-6301-3622 Hermes Center BBS * Philippe Cheve * +331-69007672 The Late BBS * Alex Scerri * +356-437-435 The Late BBS * Miguel Scerri * +356/492-964 Skyship BBS * Mario Pozzetti * +3511-3158088 The MAD Board * David V. Keeney * *CURRENTLY MOVING* ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ °±²Û Ü Ü ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜ Ü °±²Û ÛÜÜÛ Û ÜÜ Û Û ÛÜÜÛ ÛÜÜÛ ÛÜÜÜ Û Û °±²Û ÜÜÜÛ ÛÜÜÛ ÜÛÜÜÛ Û ÛÜ Û Û ÜÜÜÛ ÜÛÜ ÛÜÜÜ °±²Û ÜÜÜÜ Ü Ü ÜÜÜ Ü ÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜ Ü °±²Û ÛÜÜÛ Û Û ÛÜÛÜ Û Û Û ÛÜÜÛ Û Û Û Û Û Û Û °±²Û Û ÛÜÜÛ ÛÜÜÛ ÛÜÜÜ ÜÛÜ ÛÜÜÜ Û Û Û ÜÛÜ ÛÜÜÛ Û ÛÜÛ °±²Û Ü ÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜ °±²Û Û Û ÛÜÜÜ Û °±²Û ÛÜÜÜ ÜÛÜ ÜÜÜÛ Û °±²Û ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß THE AFFLICTED, a poem by KJ Gerken FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER, poems by KJ Gerken THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken KILLING FIELDS (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979) a poem by Klaus J. Gerken STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS, poems by Igal Koshevoy BLATANT VANITY, poems by Igal Koshevoy ALIENATION OF AFFECTION, poems by Igal Koshevoy LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE, poems by Igal Koshevoy THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena ( and coming soon ... THE FILM REVIEWS, by Pedro Sena ) ( THE SHORT STORIES, by Pedro Sena ) ( INCANTATIONS, by Pedro Sena ) ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ All books are on disk and cost $10.00 each, and may be ordered from: ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³ YGDRASIL PRESS ÛÛÛ ³ ³ 1001-257 LISGAR ST. ³ ³ OTTAWA, ONTARIO ³ ³ CANADA, K2P 0C7 ³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from the same address: $2.50 an issue (To cover disk and mailing costs), specify computer type (IBM or Mac), operating system and version, disk size and density and allow 2 weeks for delivery. Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Revision Systems BBS (1-609-896-3256). ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß ÖÄÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ Ò Â ÒÄÄ¿ ÄÒÄ ÖÄÄÄ Ò Â ÖÄÒÄ¿ º º ³ ÇÄÄÙ ÓÄÄ´ ÇÄÂÙ º º Ú¿ ÇÄÄ´ º ÓÄÄÙ ÓÄÄÙ Ð ÓÄÄÙ Ð ÁÄ ÄÐÄ ÓÄÄÙ Ð Á Ð ÄÒÄ ÖÄ·  ÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄÒÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ ÖÄÒÄ¿ ÄÒÄ ÖÄÄ¿ ÖÄ·  º º º ³ ÇÄ º ³ ÇÄÂÙ º º ³ ÇÄÄ´ º º º ³ º º ³ ÄÐÄ Ð ÓÄÙ Ð ÓÄÄÙ Ð ÁÄ Ð Ð Á Ð Á Ð ÄÐÄ ÓÄÄÙ Ð ÓÄÙ ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is prohibited. YGDRASIL A Journal of the Poetic Arts: Copyright (c) 1993 by KJ Gerken The official version of this magazine is posted on Revision Systems BBS: No other version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there. Information requests, subscriptions, suggestions, comments, submissions or anything else appropriate should be addressed, with a self addressed stamped envelope, to: ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³ YGDRASIL PRESS ÛÛÛ ³ ³ 1001-257 LISGAR ST. ³ ³ OTTAWA, ONTARIO ³ ³ CANADA, K2P 0C7 ³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ