December 2018

VOL XXVI, Issue 12, Number 308

Editor: Klaus J. Gerken

European Editor: Mois Benarroch

Contributing Editor: Jack R. Wesdorp

Previous Associate Editors: Igal Koshevoy; Evan Light; Pedro Sena; Oswald Le Winter;

Heather Ferguson; Patrick White

ISSN 1480-6401

Michael Ceraolo

Julian O'Dea

Joe Farley

Jared Pearce

Robert Smith

Gary Beck

Allan Lake

Michael Ceraolo

Things Found in Books (4)

The Confessions of Doc Williams

& Other Poems

by William Heyen

published by Etruscan Press

English Department of Youngstown State University

copyright 2006 by the author,

with

an inscription on the title page

written with a black fine-point pen:

For Judy, on the pleasure of

your company at Chautauqua

+ good luck with your poetry!

Bill Heyen

June 2009

I will look in his subsequent books

for any poems about Judy

or the time at Chautauqua

____________

They Shoot Horses, Don't They?

by Horace McCoy

copyright 1935

copyright renewed 1963

by Helen McCoy Newman

published by Avon Books

(a division of The Hearst Corporation)

fourth printing January 1970

But wait, there's more

Also

in this edition is the screenplay

to the movie of the same name

screenplay and forward

copyright 1969

by ABC Pictures Corporation

And

one Michele Hager wrote her name

in cursive with a black ballpoint pen

on the inside cover,

and

further marker her (temporary) ownership

by writing HAGER in black magic marker

on the page edges comprising

the whole thickness of the book

________________

A Hatful of Rain:

A Drama in Three Acts

by Michael V. Gazzo

copyright

1952, 1956, 1982, 1984

by the author

And

on the title page,

written by someone unknown,

a two-item to-do list: shopping list

sell table

_______________

A Tragic Man Despite Himself:

The Complete Short Plays

by Anton Chekhov

Translated

from the Russian with an

Introduction by George Malko

First Green Integer Edition 2005

English language translation copyright 2005 by George Malko

Back cover copy copyright 2005 by Green Integer

And on the page opposite the inside front cover

written in cursive:

To George,

Thank you for

being with us

My warm

regards

George

I . 2009

__

Julian O'Dea

TRUE SPRING

Hoverflies and the warm smell of wattle hang in the air under our pergola; wattlebirds bully and scrape on the aluminium roof for scraps of food; fruit flies scout the compost bin. Nature clatters on. Heat fills this upstairs room and I turn on the fan; it feels like angels' wings on the way back to Eden.

SEASONS

Already summer-weary, the beloved cat sits beneath the banksia rose, and fancy says that the scent and flowers garland the life of she who grew old as my daughter grew up.

Joe Farley

Rose

Needles in the rosebushes,

Syringes with orange stems,

Added thorns, gifts from neighbors,

To help the garden bloom red.

Smorgasbord

Crumbs gather

Along the edges

Of kitchen floor

Where brooms

Only go so far.

Lights go out.

People slumber.

The feast of

Quiet things

Begins.

A Light in the Darkness

True believers I have known.

Unfortunately I’m not one of them.

What I see is what I own,

And what I dream I borrow.

But a future beyond the sun?

I can’t imagine without doubt.

Thoughts of darkness or

Nothing still outweigh

The distant hope of light from faith.

Happy Tale

The Knight of

McDonald’s

has speared

a fiendish fish.

He’ll serve it

as dragon meat,

and you will

be satisfied.

The smell will be

in the story.

The holes will rot

in your stomach,

but the meal will be

enough for one

and comes with

french fries

and a toy.

Song of Wind and Metal

The collision

of brass spheres

banging hard

whenever they can.

so much noise,

a clang and a crash,

a press of metal,

chimes out love.

Next year they’ll make

somethings small.

In a few more years

one or two more.

Together they’ll hang

out in the wind

never wanting

to come in

even when called.

Naked Cowboy

Eternity

is not for me

I think I’d rather be

a naked cowboy.

I’d ride the range

spurs aflame

bringing cows & rascals

into line.

Tomorrow’s sunset

and yesterday’s sundown

would shine upon me

warm,

forget about

the long run

and all that is to come

for today and tomorrow

cowboy

naked be your ride

and let the wind

and antelope play

all their lurid

card games

while you pass them by

ride, ride, ride.

Fake News

Whatever you want it to be

Write it down,

Better on a clay slab

Or a monument of stone.

History is what lasts.

What ever’s said now

Is for today’s ears

And today’s purposes.

In two or three

Thousand years

All that will count

Is what you’ve carved.

And the truth, well,

Who needs that.

Now or later

A good lie trumps all.

Talk the Talk, Sing the Song

I won’t say the truth,

Nor will I tell a lie,

Not that you would know

Which word is real

And which phrase is false.

I shall only sing a song

To entertain or annoy.

Both purposes are valid

As long as you listened

To the spiel.

Meow

Last week, maybe this,

I distinctly recall

A vision involving sheep

And a large cat

Raised to pounce

On traveling yarn balls

Not yet spun.

Sewn in the Jacket of the Deceased

In the event of rebirth

Activate self-destruct sequence.

In the event of death,

Plant body in a furrow

And see what grows.

If it looks human,

Plow it under.

Fungus and vegetation

Is acceptable.

Divine Comedy

The devil is good with lies.

So is God.

Both spin tall tales.

We have to listen and believe.

Such fools men,

played by God and devil both.

Yet what can we do?

Walk a path we think our own

Wary of guideposts?

Or dance to the pull of strings invisible?

Make them laugh. Make them laugh.

All the way home.

Jared Pearce

Swapping Positions

When my boys come home we play

soccer again, pelting chips to the head,

a short touch to keep connected.

At the kick off we plan the same

plan we’ve always made, roll the ball,

and call to each other in desperation.

There’s an elbow, a crunch when

we bump, a clack of smacking tibia.

We get loose, run out of bounds,

and call each other back from the butterfly

bush, the arbor, the driveway.

We stop to let ourselves come back

to play. We trot and break.

We don’t count the goals,

only the minutes we’re there before

we’re run to other games.

Systolic

Observing nurses learning how

to find and name the heart’s low thump,

I heard the teacher guide the class

and watched them trace the murmuring lump,

when I was told that I was far

from poetry and literature,

for in the body runs a red

so different from wordy art.

I let them tease me for a while

and thought how poems track a life,

like medicine and doctors’ parts

of finding leaks and fixing smarts,

and how iambic pulses draw

a view of life to make us wise.

Mustang

I find you from the smoke

That blisters from your feet,

A drifting, hazy trail

That as it grows, dissipates.

You shake your mane against

The open sky, Iberian blood

Ruining the dry bed,

The thunder rippling your wake,

And then get chopped

To holding pens and purchasers,

The ranchers want branding,

The lovers want breeding,

The eaters want to sup you up,

So you’re unsure if you live

Here or if you invaded,

If, when you look, Pegasus is

Your loving father.

Running is always open

And that’s where you go—

It feels just like breaking free.

The Tower of Babel

The tower of Babel was reaching the heavens,

and as the lightening rod was affixed to the summit,

and the conquerors looked down on the edifice,

past the downy clouds, the ranges of birds that drifted

between them and their devastated and patient earth—

they had not set foot on the ground for years, bringing

their wives, their children, their friends, their tools,

dragging an elevator of materials in their wake,

a firestorm of ladders and a hurricane of rope,

the hands, the devotion, the rage of five generations—

and saw each stone was a face, a bucket of mortar

for every love, the chisels of hate, the tenderness

of handsaws. They had made heaven, and in their revelation

they began disarticulating one brick from another,

cracking the stairways, chucking the cedar limens,

razing from top to foundation, planting keystones in far fields,

window glass to be worn down by the sea, so each could tell

the story, the secret of how people construct an idea,

make it tower, make it raise themselves.

And each flagstone

or bit of fresco that was found spoke its own tongue,

urging that heaven again be built, demanding that long sacrifice.

You wanted to know what I thought of you.

We aren’t all lilies, hands

Smacking the summer neon,

Or coring the earth to shatter

Our windward loves as the dandelion.

We’re often sunflowers

Sipping light, packing ourselves

So our burdens break us

From what moved us first.

The roses will have white

Flies, and the crocus peeps

Then dries, the naked

Ladies dash for cover.

On the piano the season’s final

Offering, and only the echinacea stays

Out of time—not luminous,

Its dark petals flag,

Its spiny top is tough

To carry through a frost or two,

Unlike the nicotiana, perfumer,

Granting night holiness,

It will run its mile without

Holding for breath,

It will break its sky even

After it’s sliced from home—

If the rocket will take us,

The coneflower aims its nose.

Robert Smith

Song of Calamity

was setting a red khmer for two

(candlelight, decorated, i and

maria da graça)

and that was when she disrepressed.

the woman’s eyes, spaces,

mouth three angles, slicing:

– it’s all coming down

all what? all nothing

in the flash flood long horses

roll by windows undergarments stripped

of their malice roll by a girl rolls by

descending the force of the water

rolls deep spinning tops roll by the neighborhood gossip rolls by

with her dog

alluvium

the body of maria

reads the bible and asks for forty more days.

she wants to hear the specialist on tv

say that certain dews have simply

become irrehabilitable.

.

she wants to go for a walk on the island with me

– so much water inspiration –

she wants to see waves, eat roastbeef,

play with clay. she asks me

and she goes like this: ☺. the island is pretty.

let’s let’s go see the suicides.

i say no. there’s no shelter:

at night the black water eats the river,

and presidente vargas ave. swallows

novelists and other amplitudes.

my little eye deviates

from a lawyer passing by

(his tie was already brown),

stares into the silence of the man selling

umbrellas in catumbi.

a crowded bus dragging along

scares maria da graça

on tv it’s so easy to have mercy

loving the people behind the pane.

a poet rolls by hydrographing his deluge

a car with a loudspeaker rolls by, saying i love you, georgette,

give me one more chance

in short circuit

so many clothes hung out

on the sambódromo grates in july

washed out.

but soon soon there will be a dormancy parade.

in the vicinity of sequins / transversal pass the people.

our civilization of ataraxic avenues

(so well paved by fenians, democrats

and lieutenants of the devil).

transversal i pass the people

the [`] flash flood didn’t sweep all my papers away.

i can still smile; i have the necessary documents.

i can be afraid, can have hiccups and, above all, hangovers.

after maria da graça

i go.

the government’s fault, the monsoon’s fault,

whoever it was that didn’t reeducate the walls

for peeling, for going away, for demolition’s fault.

the masks’ fault, for getting their fill of fun

after maria da graça

i go.

after all coming down

only the people who’ve died aren’t going.

all what? all nothing

in the earthquake’s shaking

arms don’t reach plummet

somersault triple backflip.

to whom do the buildings bend?

children hidden under their desks,

the way the educational video taught them.

vienna, tokyo, new delhi, paramaribo,

the earth stirs, bridges and maria’s breasts fall,

the ceiling falls, the hill weeps, fire licks,

the ball goes on.

with whom do the buildings dance?

bogotá, beirut, islamabad, warsaw,

the hours pass, the tv says, 8 hours of collapse,

∞ falling. what do the gods say, and the horoscopes?

casablanca, rome, lima, lisbon, porto-novo,

death has come to show us her face

which is the same as all the others.

quito, moscow, minsk, doha, brussels, beijing,

we are a mote in her eye, death

wants to blow us out of her retinas.

ottawa, astana, baku, nassau, bandar seri begawan,

ouagadougou,

break, dance.

maria wants to shake up the skeleton

of the ruins of paris, london, berlin.

we’re only happy when we’re abroad.

she poses passes dances an x.

she says that what’s easy is being different, be

cause wherever you go calamitous things are recognizable:

death by drowning, medical error, electric shock,

closed movie theater, all over the world, it’s the thing that happens the most.

maria laughs, maria da graça of her own reason.

the water here carries euripedes all the way to our window.

she says oh my god what a tragedy

and disappears over near athens.

maria has a delicious laugh, shakes your flesh.

it’s all coming down. all what?

the wind blows hard, it snows furiously, in honiara,

people try to defend themselves,

hands over their eyes, march forward, bratislava,

sanaa, dublin, maseru, riga, jakarta:

volcano with a pretty name freezes the steps.

typical music, night, the light of sirens: seven nightclubs.

children play the statue game,

hide-and-seek,

dead-and-alive.

robo-girl reads the forecast with a smile.

in budapest, amsterdam, maputo, tripoli,

it may start raining again. light drizzle

of a tv without a signal, white noise.

the story is over. rewind:

was setting up a bombing for two

(the light, a present from me

and maria da graça),

it’s all coming down.

all what? all nothing

on top of the debris

ugly women say i love you

to anyone who passes by.

there’s hope,

even though a tidal wave

is on its way, pulling everything back before.

after, sarajevo, buenos aires, belmopan,

tsunami.

buildings still standing, on the beach, manama, bujumbura,

they fish their residents out of the river in the streets.

merciful, they throw the gloomy ones back in the water,

that runs off,

n’djamena, pyongyang, roseau, seoul.

a car with a bumper sticker reading

“no limits”

shatters against our window.

riyadh, dhaka, dakar, kabul.

the water smells like blood

but it’s only the rust from the pipes.

there are already monks in the mountains

singing the bricks’ funeral:

freetown, belgrade, victoria, nairobi,

kingstown, damascus, monrovia, lilongwe.

tight grip of grout, on the inside, arrhythmia.

the monks are looking at me with puppy faces.

character is destiny, i bet they’re saying.

bridgetown, bamako, sofia, nicosia, moroni.

ay we will all be condemned.

maria da graça follows the song crying:

georgetown, amman, cairo, hanoi, la la la.

knows nothing of geographies, furtive angel.

that’s why she’s never lost. she has a virus;

she doesn’t hurt like us, in epidemics.

she never says that she is putrefying.

there’s a star in the sky, bigger every day.

it vibrates, like it’s the sound in space up there.

maria tells me not to point

that pointing at stars gives your finger warts.

and the cockroaches

will they survive?

santiago, santo domingo, san josé, são tomé, san marino, san

salvador, what has become of hagiography? where are armies of the lord

of armies with their bombs of moral effect

when you need them most?

famine spreads. it invades ruins, museums, bookstores.

famine makes soup out of rocks, books, screens. it makes men raw,

women in black and white, colored bile. it’s not healthy to eat the bible;

god is not edible.

robo-girl on tv eats the cocaine

she was so caringly saving up

for her daughters, just in case this really is

the end. that’s why there’s no more news;

white news on the glass, light drizzle.

the story’s over. rewind:

was setting something for two

when the world came down.

the world did what? came down.

maria da graça was swept away by the water.

a block formed a drum between the concrete

houses. after maria da graça

i dig.

i go

down rua da glória after the rain, only

the little star in the sky accompanies me.

i don’t point. no one sings

bodies in rigorous relativity

teach dilacerated lessons. maria doesn’t hurt

like us. the arm bro

ken, in silence,

as though saying goodbye or needing

to breathe for the antes of another nostalgia.

she seems to dance an x there on stakes.

i can smile, i still have my papers.

there’s not a living soul to check them.

i smile, criminally

the fragrant desolation

the earth vaunts

after rain.

the star in the sky grew.

it’s already a second sun.

here comes the sun, maria da graça,

and i say: it’s all ok now.

all what?

CANÇÃO DA CALAMIDADE

armava um khmer vermelho para dois

(à luz de velas, decorado, eu e

maria da graça)

foi quando desrepresou.

os olhos da mulher, espaços,

boca três ângulos, cortando:

– tudo vem abiaxo.

tudo o quê? tudo nada

na enxurrada longos cavalos

rolam janelas roupas de baixo despidas

de sua maldade rolam menina rola

descendo a força das águas

rola fundo rola pião rola a fofoqueira do bairro

com seu cachorro

aluvião.

o corpo de maria

lê a bíblia e pede mais quarenta dias.

quer ver na tevê o especialista

dizer que certos orvalhos simplesmente

agora estão irreabilitáveis.

ela quer passear comigo na ilha

– tanta água inspiração –

quer ver onda, comer rosbife,

brincar de argila. ela me pede

e faz assim: ☺. a ilha é bonita.

vamos vamos ver os suicidas.

digo que não. que é desabrigo:

à noite a água preta come o rio,

a av. presidente vargas engole

romancistas e outras amplidões.

meu olho pequeno desvia

de um advogado que passa

(sua gravata já era marrom),

crava no silêncio do vendedor

de guarda-chuvas em catumbi.

um ônibus lotado que se arrasta

assusta maria da graça

na tevê é facil a piedade

amar as gentes de trás da vidraça.

rola um poeta hidrografando seu dilúvio

rola um carro de som dizendo eu te amo, georgete

volta para mim

em curto-circuito

tantas roupas penduradas

nas grades do sambódromo em julho

deslavadas.

mas já já tem desfile de dormências.

em cercanias de paetês / transversal passa o povo.

nossa civilização de avenidas ataráxicas

(tão bem pavimentadas por fenianos, democráticos

e tenentes do diabo).

transversal passo ao povo

a [`] enxurrada não levou meus documentos todos.

ainda posso sorrir; tenho os papéis apropriados.

posso ter susto, soluço, sobretudo ressaca.

atrás de maria da graça

eu vou.

a culpa do governo, a colpa da monção,

a culpa de quem não reeducou as paredes

para o descasque, o ir embora, a demolição.

a culpa dos máscaras, que se divertem às fartas.

atrás de maria da graça

eu vou.

atrás de tudo abaixo

só não vai quem já morreu.

tudo o quê? tudo nada

em tremedeira de terremoto

braços não alcançam despencam

salto mortal salto carpado triplo.

por quem se dobram os edifícios?

meninos escondidos sob as carteiras,

como ensinam os vídeos educativos.

viena, tóquio, nova déli, paramaribo,

terra atiça, caem pontes e os peitos de maria,

cai a laje, chora o morro, lambe o fogo,

segue o baile.

com quem dançam os edifícios?

bogotá, beirute, islamabad, varsóvia,

as horas passam, diz a tevê, 8 horas de queda,

∞ cair. o que dizem os deuses, e os horóscopos?

casablanca, roma, lima, lisboa, porto novo,

a morte nos veio mostrar o rosto

que é igual a todos os outros.

quito, moscou, minsk, doha, bruxelas, pequim,

somos cisco no olho dela, a morte

nos quer assoprar fora de suas retinas.

ottawa, astana, baku, nassau, bandar seri begawan,

ouagadougou,

break, dance.

maria quer chacoalhar o esqueleto

das ruínas de paris, londres, berlim.

só no estrangeiro é que a gente é feliz.

faz pose passo de dança em xis.

ela diz que fácil mesmo é ser diferente, por

que em toda parte o calamitoso se reconhece:

morto afogado, erro médico, choque elétrico,

cinema fechado, no mundo, é o que mais acontece.

maria ri, maria da graça da sua razão.

a água aqui carrega eurípedes até nossa janela.

ela diz ô meu deus que tragédia

e some para os lados de atenas.

maria ri gostosa, da carne tremer.

tudo vem abaixo. tudo o quê?

venta forte, neva bravo, em honiara,

o povo tenta se defender,

mão nos olhos, pé à frente, bratislava,

sana, dublin, maseru, riga, jacarta:

vulcão com nome bonito deixa os passos congelados.

música típica, noite, luz de sirenes: sete boates.

crianças brincam de estátua,

esconde-esconde,

morto-vivo.

moça-robô prevê o tempo sorrindo.

em budapeste, amsterdã, maputo, trípoli,

pode voltar a chover. chuvisco

de tevê for a do ar, ruído branco.

a história acabou. rebobine:

armava um atentado à bomba para dois

(a luz, presente meu

e de maria da graça),

tudo vem abaixo.

tudo o quê? tudo nada

em cima dos escombros

mulheres feias dizem eu te amo

a qualquer um que passa.

é uma esperança,

ainda que vaga marinha

aí venha, repuxando tudo antes.

depois, sarajevo, buenos aires, belmopan,

tsunami.

prédios ainda de pé, em praia, manama, bujumbura,

pescam seus moradoes no rio das ruas.

piedosos, atiram os jururus de volta à água,

que escorre,

ndjamena, pyongyang, roseau, seul.

carro com adesivo de para-choque

“100 limites”

se espatifa contro nossa janela.

riad, daca, dacar, cabul.

a água tem cheiro de sangue

mas é só o ferro dos canos.

já há monges nas montanhas

cantando o funeral dos tijolos:

freetown, belgrado, vitória, nairóbi,

kingstown, damasco, monróvia, lilongue.

aperto de argamassa, por dentro, arritmia.

os monges me olham com cara de filhotes.

o caráter é o destino do homem, dizem, aposto.

bridgetown, bamako, sófia, nicósia, moroni.

ai que estamos todos condenados.

maria da graça acompanha o canto chorando:

georgetown, amã, cairo, hanói, lá lá lá.

nade sabe de geografias, anjinho esquivo.

por isso nunca está perdida. tem um vírus;

não dói como nós, em epidemia.

nunca diz que está apodrecida.

tem uma estrelinha no céu, maior a cada dia.

vibra, como é o som no espaço lá de cima.

maria diz não aponta,

que dá verruga nos dedos.

e as baratas

sobrevivam?

santiago, santo domingo, san josé, são tomé, san marino, san

salvador, que é da hagiografia? onde estão os exércitos do senhor

dos exércitos e suas bombas de efeito moral

quando mais se precisa?

a fome se alastra. invade ruínas, museus, livrarias.

a fome faz sopa das pedras, livros, telas. faz homens crus,

mulheres em preto e branco, bile colorida. faz mal comer a bíblia;

deus não é comestível.

moça-robô na tevê comeu a cocaína

que guardava com tanto carinho

para as filhas, no caso de ser mesmo

o fim. por isso não temos mais notícias:

ruído branco no vidro e chuvisco.

acabou a história. rebobine:

armava qualquer coisa para dois

quando o mundo veio abiaxo.

o mundo o quê? veio abaixo.

maria da graça foi levada pelas águas.

um bloco fez tambor por entre as casas

de concreto. atrás de maria da graça

eu cavo.

eu vou

pela rua da glória depois da chuva, só

a estrelinha no céu me acompanha.

não aponto. ninguém canta

os corpos em rigorosa relatividade

dão lições dilaceradas. maria não dói

como nós. o braço que

brado, em silêncio,

como que dá tchau ou precisa

respirar para os antes de outra saudade.

parece que dança estacada ali em xis.

ainda posso sorrir, tenho os documentos.

não há vivalma para conferir.

sorrio, criminosamente

a desolação cheirosa

da qual se envaidece a terra

depois das chuvas.

a estrela no céu cresceu.

já é um segundo sol.

lá vem o sol, maria da graça,

e eu digo: está tudo bem agora.

tudo o quê?

Biography Victor Heringer was born in Rio de Janeiro in 1988. He is the author of the poetry

collection Automatógrafo (Rio de Janeiro: 7Letras, 2011) and the novelsGlória (Rio de Janeiro:

7Letras, 2012) and O amor dos homens avulsos (São Paulo: Companhia das Letras,

2016). Glória received Brazil’s most prestigious literary award, the Jabuti Prize (second place,

2013) and O amor dos homens avulsos was a finalist for the Oceanos Prize.

In addition to his work as a novelist and poet, he also produced visual art, video art, and literary

translations. As a columnist at Pessoa Magazine in São Paulo, he contributed a wide variety of

pieces on political and social issues, literary history, and everyday phenomena. He held a

Master’s degree in Literature from the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro and worked at the

Moreira Salles Institute.

In March 2018, shortly before his thirtieth birthday, he died under mysterious circumstances in

Rio de Janeiro. After his death, Automatógrafo sold out; sales of his novels rose sharply, and

Companhia das Letras, Brazil’s largest publishing company, announced their intention to collect

and reprint his poetic works. His poetry has yet to appear in English.

Translator Biography Robert Smith holds a B.A. in English and Italian from Indiana University. In 2014, he was a

Fulbright English Teaching Assistant in the Northeast of Brazil. He currently resides in the

Chapada Diamantina, Bahia, Brazil. His translations of contemporary Brazilian poetry have

appeared in New Poetry in Translationand The Brooklyn Rail: inTranslation (links below).

http://newpoetryintranslation.com/alcides.html

http://intranslation.brooklynrail.org/brazilian-portuguese/poetry-by-clarissa-macedo

Victor Heringer, “Song of Calamity” (video art) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1cmF8koeILs

Gary Beck

Descent

Before we descend into chaos,

poverty leading to hunger,

desperation leading to crime,

there is still a modicum of hope

that the owners of our land

will relent and moderate

economic oppression,

allowing subsistence for many

expectations of abundance for some,

but some of us fear

the wealthy have illusions

of retreating to protected enclaves

when rioting and disorder

convulses a needy people

submerging into animalism

as they struggle for survival.

Precipitation

Rain falls on the city

neither gentle nor soothing

to the unappreciative

who no longer know

where they get their water,

the essential service

that we can only do without

a little longer than air.

And as we rush to work, school,

shopping, other activities,

we resent getting wet,

fume at any delays,

get overheated,

uncomfortable,

completely unaware

we once lived without shelter.

Scientific Progress

The chaos of the universe

unperceived by most

who go about affairs

unaware disaster looms,

work, play, create, invent

in the blind expectation

that nothing will interfere

with best laid plans,

comforting routines,

triumphs and defeats.

We often do not learn

pleasure is fleeting.

Those who speculate

on the meaning of existence,

ask why are we here,

examine right and wrong,

question the nature of belief,

reach arbitrary conclusions,

except certain scientists

who demonstrate proof

at a primitive level

of demonstrable facts

that make drastic changes

in day to day life

that most of us accept

without understanding.

Madness Unleashed

Insane attacks

with guns, knives, bombs,

increasing

in fraying America

yet we walk city streets

reasonably secure,

expecting

to arrive safely,

at home, school, work,

be unmolested

by a disturbed person

waiting to detonate

for whatever reason

on innocent and guilty alike.

Subversion

The news of terrible crimes

does not disturb us

sufficiently

to do anything about it.

Murder, rape, robbery

are normal events

promulgated

by constant tv broadcasts

of glamorous violence

conditioning us

to accept

the unacceptable.

Allan Lake

Not Handy

Regular cleans for household machines;

my aging car ingests best oil.

I'm helping them last to save a planet

and poverty breeds frugality.

Islamic Rapacious State

bullet-riddled States of America

Chinese and Russian hacking

Saudi journalist dismembering

gun lobby, global warmongering

Slamming screen door missing

thingy that slows its zeal to embrace

door frame. Plaster of living room

cracking; extractor fan over the stove

not keen on extracting ; switches stick

and the clock, rescued by roadside,

is a bit slow but – Hallelujah –

somewhere there's someone handy,

capable of fixing little things

for a slice of little incomes.

All selections are 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 - 2016 by Klaus J. Gerken.

The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's World-Wide Web site

http://users.synapse.net/kgerken. No other version shall be deemed "authorized" unless

downloaded from there or The Library and Archives Canada at

http://epe.lacbac.gc.ca/100/201/300/ygdrasil/index.html .

Distribution is allowed and encouraged as long as the issue is unchanged.

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