LOVE & DEATH as the WINGS OF ANGELS

SHAPED POEMS by JONATHAN VOS POST

FOR "ANGELS ON THE SQUARE"
A BENEFIT FOR
THE AIDS SERVICE CENTER

PASADENA, CALIFORNIA

11-12 JUNE 1994 


Copyright 1994, by Emerald City Publishing.
All rights reserved. May not be reproduced without permission.
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Send e-mail to Jonathan Vos Post
LOVE & DEATH as the WINGS OF ANGELS SHAPED POEMS by JONATHAN VOS POST "ANGELS ON THE SQUARE" is a FUNDRAISING STREET FESTIVAL BENEFITTING THE AIDS SERVICE CENTER at CENTENNIAL SQUARE PASADENA CITY HALL CALIFORNIA WHERE HUNDREDS OF ARTISTS GATHER TO CREATE THEIR INTERPRETATIONS OF ANGELS. THE ARTWORK WILL BE COMPLETED DURING THE 2-DAY FESTIVAL AND WILL BE PIECED TOGETHER AS THE EVENT PROGRESSES TO CREATE ONE OF THE WORLD'S LARGEST OUTDOOR MURALS 11-12 JUNE 1994
Jonathan Vos Post Emerald City Publishing 3225 N. Marengo Avenue Altadena, CA 91001-4403 Send e-mail to Jonathan Vos Post Copyright (c) 1994 by Emerald City Publishing LOVE & DEATH as the WINGS OF ANGELS Poem Time/Date Page Insects, Petals, and the Wings of Angels 2015-2050, 25 Jan 83/1135-1152, 18 May 94 1 One Grain 0421-0422, 11 Jun 71 2 Atlantis 0755-0809, 10 Jly 72 2 Brief Communication 0140-0200, 11 Aug 72 3 A Small Question 0352-0357, 11 Aug 72 3 Personal Resurrection 2245-2330, 4 Apr 73 4 The Language of Fire 1910-1955, 14 May 73 4 Trihedral 0145-0245, 9 Dec 73 5 Epicurus 1245-1330, 17 Dec 73 6 Remembered Love 1305-1335, 11 Sep 74 7 Severence Pain 0940-1020, 12 Sep 74 7 Stitchery 0320-0420, 23 Sep 74 8 Fingerprint 0250-0350, 11 Jan 77 8 Your Third Heart 2020-2030, 10 Aug 77 9 Thanatogenesis 1640-1650, 31 Oct 77 9 Horror Poem, After Auden 12 Dec 77 10 Classmates in Death 2320-2330, 14 Mar 79 11 Eclipse 1720-1730, 26 Feb 79 11 Tenth Anniversary 0150-0200, 20 Mar 78 12 Garden Game 2220-2250, 9 Sep 80 13 Evolution of Love 2030-2115, 5 Oct 80 13 The Sun Breaks 1100-1130, 14 Dec 80 14 The Laws of Love 0830-0930, 28 Jly 81 14 LOVE & DEATH as the WINGS OF ANGELS SHAPED POEMS by JONATHAN VOS POST Copyright Information "On the Tenth Anniversary of His Wife's Death" appeared in Collage, Brookdale Community College, Lincroft, New Jersey (Columbia School of Journalism Gold Medal Winner for College Literary Magazine), Vol.8, No.1, 1978, p.20 "Thanatogenesis" appeared in Weirdbook 21, Weirdbook Press, ed. W. Paul Ganley,Buffalo, NY, Fall 1985 "Antikithera: Thera: Atlantis" (as "Atlantis Falls") appeared in The Tome, Grub Street Publications, ed. David Niall Wilson, Norfolk, VA, 1990 "Eclipse" appeared in The Tome, Grub Street Publications, ed. David Niall Wilson, Norfolk, VA, 1990 The other 19 of these 23 poems were previously unpublished. First Edition (16 poems, no Table of Contents): 20 May 1994 4 Copies Printed & Bound at: Sherlock Holmes Résumé Service 1575 North Lake #202 Pasadena, CA 91104-2307 (818) 398-4631 Second Edition: 22 May 1994 First Printing: 22 May 1994 10 Copies Printed & Bound at: Sherlock Holmes Résumé Service Second Printing: 23 May 1994 10 Copies Printed & Bound at: Sherlock Holmes Résumé Service
Insects, Petals, and the Wings of Angels
by
Jonathan Vos Post
The day will come, chrysanthemum, in a drone of rainbows Sunday sun-saturating yellow hives of heaven Bees in the brainpan, honey in the cranium, Bees humming in the brain, in the garden. Come: We overcome what we have understood, overlook what no one ever knows (O! undergrowth that overflows underground and underwood). What each of us suppose to be the lotus is the white rose. The lotus, notice. Hmmm... [2015-2050, 25 Jan 83] The night will fall, as will we all, in ever-dimming dusk Sunset draining like blood from a velvet cloud-torn sky darkness in the brain, blackness in white bones, shadows shifting in the soul, in soft skin. We overtake what we have undertaken, overlook what's underneath us all (dark undergrowth that overwhelms underwater and underground). What each of us believe unable to grieve: the black rose. That rose froze. Ah... 1135-1152, 18 May 1994]
One Grain, and the Wings of Angels
by
Jonathan Vos Post
a drop of rain touched me once, but i have many brothers & sisters who have felt nothing but the sun. and once i kissed the bottom of the sole of the foot of a boy who ran into the ocean and drowned but i have many brothers & sisters who have felt nothing but the sun.
[11 Jun 71]
Atlantis, and the Wings of Angels
by
Jonathan Vos Post
It was a difficult morning, iguanas crusted with paste from crumbled walls crackling a dry "Ahimsa" nestled like leaves in an infant's skeleton ribcage, blinking slow. It was a blinding shatter, mountains bleeding lava; an aftertaste of turning over, restless; inordinate quivers jammed with sunrise edges, a cartridge on my desk. Why are there dreams between awakeness? Why a levelled rise through phylogenetic pain? Why must my mammal ancestors call to me, bloated with eggs, black with poison, why writhe? From Thera the Holy to ragged Minos flee: down, down, down, the alabaster swarms with puzzled flies who keep the surface & falling towers marble scums the sea.
[10 July 72]
Brief Communication, and the Wings of Angels
by
Jonathan Vos Post
Listen, this is no small thing: when the poem ends, I die. Please try to think, or it's all over now, anyway. Was there a flash of a swift wing stroking, glistening to metal in that one clear day? Strain, for I am straining so, for it is everything. Wait! As a child, perhaps, you are five, you have just now dropped something, you lean over ...What was it? What was it? I am fading, I am. These words, I swear it, are the only link. Did you glimpse from the corner of even one fast eye in the moonlight, goddamn it, you must smell those trees. In the mist, the faintest arch of a silvery-pastel rainbow, as cool as the moonlight, didn't you see it? Can't you hear what I'm crying, these dust-motes drifting out of the light, a fish-tail glimmer & then the rippled surface, won't you recall, it is the end now, won't you: that aching kiss that didn't reach across? [11 Aug 72]

A Small Question, and the Wings of Angels
by
Jonathan Vos Post
If I didn't love you so much, could I hurt you like this? If I couldn't hurt you like this, could you love me so much? If I couldn't hurt you so much, could you love me like this? Do you love me?
[11 Aug 72]
Personal Resurrection, and the Wings of Angels
by
Jonathan Vos Post
I myself am built of death, a scaffolding of dying, and every cell that laboreth is also certifying the secret underlying machineries of breath. That patient semaphore, the muscle-fibered heart considers no back door, its universal art a self-sufficient part indifferent at the core [4 Apr 73]

The Language of Fire, and the Wings of Angels
by
Jonathan Vos Post
When fire is the language, our limbs attack together the fortresses of distance to free the sky. When skin is molten metal, I feel within me, his placidness a baffle to my brief joy. And in the burning garden, I shudder at the stranger immune to the ellipsis in our clipped cry. [14 May 73]

Trihedral, and the Wings of Angels
by
Jonathan Vos Post
I cannot remember a time when I didn't love both of you & walking pre-dawn home, I can't imagine a termination. Cross-sected by December we are a triangle, or any other time, I mean an endless prism. This road, with the white spine, falls evenly to its shoulders & the air does cut in my lungs like a knife & I walk this knife-blade of a road that goes on forever, I mean an endless prism. The puddle seeks to cage the moon in crystal. The topmost needle of that pine, which sees the sun last, the moon first, is itself of that shape, as are the frosted grasses & the frost itself, growing each blade of ice forest on the water in hollows by the roadside & this truck passing, a bass-major triad strum of the road like a cello string dopplers near, then away, but unceasing. I mean an endless prism. This conviction, I mean my certainty & how the Earth itself occludes the full circle of any rainbow, makes me long for an infinite plane of light to fall on us, and what we do with it. [9 Dec 73]

Epicurus, and the Wings of Angels
by
Jonathan Vos Post
To find that all sensation is pain, is the atoms of Epicurus in the snow. That pleasure is peace deferred & the fear of death along the boughs of willow. That which you told me with the roundest words is the chord which makes surrounding silence music & your warmest limbs communicant by dark, a lyric bitter with anticipation. I would not have it otherwise. Let thirst remember fountains; the void, your wave; the space between us like a mirror, sword to the touch, your name by sleep; while I fold your perfume barbed with softness & your echo to my sheets: what you don't hurt, can't know you! [17 Dec 73]
Remembered Love
by
Jonathan Vos Post
I have great trouble with this mosquito, who bites me in darkness & interrupts my dreams cuts my comfort short, this wandering buzz-saw. If it's food you want, I set a dish of blood by the bedside: wade in! Why be a connoisseur of freshness? Look, my skin's my own, but I'm no killer. Climb into this glass I'll carry you outside & take a bottle. Drink with me by moonlight. [11 sep 74]
Severence Pain
by
Jonathan Vos Post
Sometimes after amputation the patient thinks he feels a phantom limb, same time, same place, same channel, where there is pale air only. A man with a splinter underneath his fingernail was driving to a doctor to extract it when a car crash cut his arm off. After the pain of the accident, he ached incurably from the phantom splinter in his phantom hand. [12 sep 74]
Stitchery
by
Jonathan Vos Post
No scar is a monument, though some would wish it so, to a moment hotly lived: it is also flesh, though somewhat wiser flesh. Here vertigo of casting sense aside meets humbleness: I will not try to grow for fullness is, if only innocence could know this leather, in lasting and in holding quicker flesh together [23 sep 74]

Fingerprint
by
Jonathan Vos Post
My hands grow alien to me, broad spades for breaking Russian sod, barbed-wire hands and hands for fishermen; brown, foreign, and alarming. I close my eyes and can't remember them. What are these coarse and knotted things? Lifting a glass, I have to stop: where has this black forest come from? Scar: I don't remember you, who cried at your birth? What labor made your knuckles rough? Was it honest work? When you are wrinkled by another age, will you be mine at all? [11 jan 77]

Your Third Heart
by
Jonathan Vos Post
You took your first heart for granted, as children love their lives & limbs, & when you died you didn't understand. We brought you back at great expense, unfroze you, and stitched in your second heart, throbbing in your open chest like a skinned rabbit. The first century is the hardest, you aged through marriages, transplants, business wars, your second heart your closest friend & when you died, you understood & likewise when we brought you back & grafted in your third & final heart. This one is immortal though you are not: at brain-death it will find another host. [10 aug 77]

Thanatogenesis
by
Jonathan Vos Post
We crawled from the ocean before we were born. Our first cry came when the garden burned. We left at dawn & crossed the sky We don't remember when we died. [31 oct 77]

Horror Poem, After Auden
by
Jonathan Vos Post
O plunge your hands in water, plunge them in up to the wrist. Stare, stare in the basin and wonder what you missed. The glacier knocks in the cupboard, the desert sighs in the bed, and the crack in the tea-cup opens a lane to the land of the dead O thrust your arms in the darkness, thrust them in up to the shoulder. Stare, stare with horror for the night falls cold. Then open your mouth to call and silence fills with fright. Then close the eyes of day and open the eyes of night [12 DEC 77]

Insects, Petals, and the Wings of Angels
by
Jonathan Vos Post
The day will come, chrysanthemum, in a drone of rainbows Sunday sun-saturating yellow hives of heaven Bees in the brainpan, honey in the cranium, Bees humming in the brain, in the garden. Come: We overcome what we have understood, overlook what no one ever knows (O! undergrowth that overflows underground and underwood). What each of us suppose to be the lotus is the white rose. The lotus, notice. Hmmm... The night will fall, as will we all, in ever-dimming dusk Sunset draining like blood from a velvet cloud-torn sky darkness in the brain, blackness in white bones, shadows shifting in the soul, in soft skin. We overtake what we have undertaken, overlook what's underneath us all (dark undergrowth that overwhelms underwater and underground). What each of us believe unable to grieve: the black rose. That rose froze. Ah...

One Grain
by
Jonathan Vos Post
a drop of rain touched me once, but i have many brothers & sisters who have felt nothing but the sun. and once i kissed the bottom of the sole of the foot of a boy who ran into the ocean and drowned but i have many brothers & sisters who have felt nothing but the sun.
Antikithera: Thera: Atlantis
by
Jonathan Vos Post
It was a difficult morning, iguanas crusted with paste from crumbled walls crackling a dry "Ahimsa" nestled like leaves in an infant's skeleton ribcage, blinking slow. It was a blinding shatter, mountains bleeding lava; an aftertaste of turning over, restless; inordinate quivers jammed with sunrise edges, a cartridge on my desk. Why are there dreams between awakeness? Why a levelled rise through phylogenetic pain? Why must my mammal ancestors call to me, bloated with eggs, black with poison, why writhe? From Thera the Holy to ragged Minos flee: down, down, down, the alabaster swarms with puzzled flies who keep the surface & falling towers marble scums the sea.
(2)
Brief Communication
by
Jonathan Vos Post
Listen, this is no small thing: when the poem ends, I die. Please try to think, or it's all over now, anyway. Was there a flash of a swift wing stroking, glistening to metal in that one clear day? Strain, for I am straining so, for it is everything. Wait! As a child, perhaps, you are five, you have just now dropped something, you lean over ... What was it? What was it? I am fading, I am. These words, I swear it, are the only link. Did you glimpse from the corner of even one fast eye in the moonlight, goddamn it, you must smell those trees. In the mist, the faintest arch of a silvery-pastel rainbow, as cool as the moonlight, didn't you see it? Can't you hear what I'm crying, these dust-motes drifting out of the light, a fish-tail glimmer & then the rippled surface, won't you recall, it is the end now, won't you: that aching kiss that didn't reach across?
A Small Question
by
Jonathan Vos Post
If I didn't love you so much, could I hurt you like this? If I couldn't hurt you like this, could you love me so much? If I couldn't hurt you so much, could you love me like this? Do you love me?
(3)
Personal Resurrection
by
Jonathan Vos Post
I myself am built of death, a scaffolding of dying, and every cell that laboreth is also certifying the secret underlying machineries of breath. That patient semaphore, the muscle-fibered heart considers no back door, its universal art a self-sufficient part indifferent at the core
The Language of Fire
by
Jonathan Vos Post
When fire is the language, our limbs attack together the fortresses of distance to free the sky. When skin is molten metal, I feel within me, his placidness a baffle to my brief joy. And in the burning garden, I shudder at the stranger immune to the ellipsis in our clipped cry.
Trihedral
by
Jonathan Vos Post
I cannot remember a time when I didn't love both of you & walking pre-dawn home, I can't imagine a termination. Cross-sected by December we are a triangle, or any other time, I mean an endless prism. This road, with the white spine, falls evenly to its shoulders & the air does cut in my lungs like a knife & I walk this knife-blade of a road that goes on forever, I mean an endless prism. The puddle seeks to cage the moon in crystal. The topmost needle of that pine, which sees the sun last, the moon first, is itself of that shape, as are the frosted grasses & the frost itself, growing each blade of ice forest on the water in hollows by the roadside & this truck passing, a bass-major triad strum of the road like a cello string dopplers near, then away, but unceasing. I mean an endless prism. This conviction, I mean my certainty & how the Earth itself occludes the full circle of any rainbow, makes me long for an infinite plane of light to fall on us, and what we do with it.
(5)
Epicurus
by
Jonathan Vos Post
To find that all sensation is pain, is the atoms of Epicurus in the snow. That pleasure is peace deferred & the fear of death along the boughs of willow. That which you told me with the roundest words is the chord which makes surrounding silence music & your warmest limbs communicant by dark, a lyric bitter with anticipation. I would not have it otherwise. Let thirst remember fountains; the void, your wave; the space between us like a mirror, sword to the touch, your name by sleep; while I fold your perfume barbed with softness & your echo to my sheets: what you don't hurt, can't know you!
(6)
Remembered Love
by
Jonathan Vos Post
I have great trouble with this mosquito, who bites me in darkness & interrupts my dreams cuts my comfort short, this wandering buzz-saw. If it's food you want, I set a dish of blood by the bedside: wade in! Why be a connoisseur of freshness? Look, my skin's my own, but I'm no killer. Climb into this glass I'll carry you outside & take a bottle. Drink with me by moonlight.
Severence Pain
by
Jonathan Vos Post
Sometimes after amputation the patient thinks he feels a phantom limb, same time, same place, same channel, where there is pale air only. A man with a splinter underneath his fingernail was driving to a doctor to extract it when a car crash cut his arm off. After the pain of the accident, he ached incurably from the phantom splinter in his phantom hand.
(7)
Stitchery
by
Jonathan Vos Post
No scar is a monument, though some would wish it so, to a moment hotly lived: it is also flesh, though somewhat wiser flesh. Here vertigo of casting sense aside meets humbleness: I will not try to grow for fullness is, if only innocence could know this leather, in lasting and in holding quicker flesh together
Fingerprint
by
Jonathan Vos Post
My hands grow alien to me, broad spades for breaking Russian sod, barbed-wire hands and hands for fishermen; brown, foreign, and alarming. I close my eyes and can't remember them. What are these coarse and knotted things? Lifting a glass, I have to stop: where has this black forest come from? Scar: I don't remember you, who cried at your birth? What labor made your knuckles rough? Was it honest work? When you are wrinkled by another age, will you be mine at all?
(8)
Your Third Heart
by
Jonathan Vos Post
You took your first heart for granted, as children love their lives & limbs, & when you died you didn't understand. We brought you back at great expense, unfroze you, and stitched in your second heart, throbbing in your open chest like a skinned rabbit. The first century is the hardest, you aged through marriages, transplants, business wars, your second heart your closest friend & when you died, you understood & likewise when we brought you back & grafted in your third & final heart. This one is immortal though you are not: at brain-death it will find another host.
Thanatogenesis
by
Jonathan Vos Post
We crawled from the ocean before we were born. Our first cry came when the garden burned. We left at dawn & crossed the sky We don't remember when we died. (9)
Horror Poem, After Auden
by
Jonathan Vos Post
O plunge your hands in water, plunge them in up to the wrist. Stare, stare in the basin and wonder what you missed. The glacier knocks in the cupboard, the desert sighs in the bed, and the crack in the tea-cup opens a lane to the land of the dead O thrust your arms in the darkness, thrust them in up to the shoulder. Stare, stare with horror for the night falls cold. Then open your mouth to call and silence fills with fright. Then close the eyes of day and open the eyes of night
Classmates in Death
by
Jonathan Vos Post
Classmates in Death, they walk the green campus forever, beside the frozen lake Books in hand, in the brilliant sunlight, in the total darkness Someday we will all register for classes in the same university. All of us must learn the lessons they loved as they went to the grave. Classmates in Life: it is our turn to be the teachers. Eclipse by Jonathan Vos Post Life goes on, though sometimes you have doubts. The sun comes up, the moon comes out. Where is the shadow in the daylight? Death goes on with closed or open eyes. The stars are overhead. Walk through the leaves. Walk downhill slowly where the mist is white (11)

On the Tenth Anniversary of His Wife's Death
by
Su Tungpo (China, 1075 AD)

Transliterated
by
Jonathan Vos Post
Ten years apart. No news, no thoughts, and no forgetting. I can't visit your distant grave to whisper longingly to you. If we met, how could you take my eroded face and frost-white hair? Last night I dreamed I was home. You were near the dressing table. Silently we stared, eyes wet, in candlelight. Let us meet every year broken hearted in the pine trees by moonlight.
(12) Triolet: Garden Game by Jonathan Vos Post Love with your whole heart, or not at all. Catch or do not catch the colored ball that rolls downhill to childhood. Love with your whole heart or not at all, rose and thorn, world and end of the world. Spring beyond the sky; in fire, fall. Love with your whole heart or not at all. Catch or do not catch the colored ball.
The Evolution of Love by Jonathan Vos Post Plants compete for the sun's favor. Lovers compete for the kisses' flavor. We seek the complete, and die braver. Dinosaurs died when the flower was born Love likes the petal, but keeps the thorn. What smiles at night may kill by morn. Odds against us are always great. Survivors must anticipate. Love waits for a chance We wait and wait. Love is a problem we try to solve. The loser's extinct, the winners evolve.
(13) The Sun Breaks by Jonathan Vos Post The sun breaks into many suns where the wave breaks into many waves. The year breaks into many days, and the rocks become sand. The jungle breaks into many trees, the palm tree breaks into many fronds, the shadow lies broken on the ground and moves in fragments of the wind. My life breaks into memories, my family broken into many lives. The wise are mostly underground. The young are scattered by the wind. Old songs are broken into many notes. Old grief into innumerable tears.
The Laws of Love by Jonathan Vos Post The Laws of Love: you break them at your peril. When push comes to shove, the heart is feral. The Laws of Love: do not make a mistake. Squeezed in the velvet glove, your heart will break. The Laws of Love, and the rules of Touch-and-Go: below becomes above although, although... If you violate the Laws of Love, pain is the punishment thereof. (14)
available from: EMERALD CITY PUBLISHING POST: 27 Selected Poems, Black Grouse Press, Pasadena, CA, February 1970 ikon 1, Black Grouse Press, Pasadena, CA, June 1972, OUT OF PRINT; ikon 2, ed. Jonathan Vos Post, Black Grouse Press, Pasadena, CA, June 1973 COLD MOUNTAIN: 30 Haiku from the Chinese T'ang Poet Han-shan, by Jonathan Vos Post, 28 April 1985, $10.00 FATHER'S DAY, by Jonathan Vos Post, 18 Jun 89, 300 copies mailed Jun-Sep 1989, $2.00 SELECTED POLITICAL POEMS, by Jonathan Vos Post, 16 October 1992, iii+24 pp.; reviewed in: New Hope International Review, Vol.17, No.3, 1994, Cheshire, England; $10.00 CHAOS:INFINITY, Science Fiction Poems, by Jonathan Vos Post, 64 pp., 1992; Reviewed by John B. Rosenman, Star*Line, Vol.16, No.4, July/August 1993; $10.00 QUATRAINS FROM "THE MARTIAN CHRONICLES", by Ray Bradbury & Jonathan Vos Post, 8 pp., December 1992; from Space & Time Magazine, Winter 1992/93, New York, NY; Reviewed by John B. Rosenman, Star*Line, Vol.16, No.4, July/August 1993; $5.00 (Autographed by Ray Bradbury: $10.00) NEW TOYS -- NEW WORLD: How to Invent & Market Toys and Transform the World, by Eric Frydler & Dr. Clyde Collins, Published by Haversine Enterprises, Printed & Bound by Emerald City Publishing, 2nd Edition, 1993, $50.00 SCIENCE FICTION & FANTASY POETRY: Critical & Bibliographic Essays, by Jonathan Vos Post, 150 pp., 1994; $10.00 including 1-year membership in the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA) Special Interest Group in Poetry (Chaired by Jonathan Vos Post) LOVE & DEATH as the WINGS OF ANGELS: Shaped Poems, by Jonathan Vos Post, iii+14 pp., Second Edition: 22 May 1994, $10.00 SPACE & TIME, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Horror, and Poetry; #81, Spring 1993, 96 pp.; SPACE & TIME, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Horror, and Poetry; #82, Fall 1993, 96 pp.; SPACE & TIME, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Horror, and Poetry; #83, Spring 1994, 96 pp., ed. SPACE & TIME, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Horror, and Poetry; #84, Fall 1994, 96 pp., ed. Gorden Linzner, ISSN 0271-2512, Co-Published by Space & Time and Emerald City Publishing, Single issue $5.00 + $1.25 handling charge; Subscriptions (1-year, 2 issues) $10.00, payable to G. Linzner, order from: Space & Time, 138 W. 70th Street, New York, NY 10023-4432 THE 1994 RHYSLING ANTHOLOGY: Science Fiction, Fantasy, Horror, & Speculative Poetry of 1993, Nominated by the Science Fiction Poetry Association for their 1994 RHYSLING AWARDS, Co-published by Science Fiction Poetry Association, Emerald City Publishing, and Figment Press; 52 pp., March 1994 edition: 170 units; $2.00 ($2.50 Can./Mex.; $3.00 overseas), order from Michael A. Arnzen, SFPA Secretary, POB 3712, Moscow, ID 83843 All other inquiries & checks to: Jonathan Vos Post, Emerald City Publishing 3225 N. Marengo Avenue; Altadena, CA 91001-4403 Send e-mail to Jonathan Vos Post