Wise Words with Bruce Wise


 

Porcus Vilissimus
          by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei

The lunar year in China has begun—year of the pig—
but due to African swine fever, farmers took a hit.
The grim, incurable disease has traveled far and wide,
some thousands of kilometres across the countryside.
And those farms not infected still must pay to halt its spread;
unprecedented is the cost to keep their businesses.
From north to south, from east to west, the outbreaks have occurred;
1,000,000 pigs have been culled from the World’s largest herd.
So Chinese now are shifting from their pork to poultry plates,
as palates must adjust to these pernicious porcine fates.

Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of New Millennial China.

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Another Chinese Hack Attack
          by Li “Web Crease” Du

Who hacked? The Chinese Ministry of State Security.
Where breached? Norwegian software firm Visma. What did they steal?
Some secrets of its clients and some intel properties;
its software ‘s used by some 900,000 entities.
APT 10, behind Cloudhopper, first accessed the company
by using stolen logins they had gotten furtively.
Cloudhopper is the name of China’s technowar campaign.
But why? They want to take from others anything they can.
Their purpose was to infiltrate for info they could use.
When will the Chinese government quit cyber law abuse?

Li “Web Crease” Du is a poet of New Millennial China. In December 2018, HP and IBM, are among companies hacked by Xi Jinping’s Communist tyranny. APT 10 (Advanced Persistent Threat 10) is a Chinese cyber espionage group that targets engineering, aerospace, telecom firms, and the governments of the USA, Europe, and Japan. Malware associated with them includes haymaker, snugride, bugjuice and quasarrat.

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Imagistic Pic
          by Alecsei Burdew

Dark out from my window,
wonderful the picture,
distant, tall firs whiskered,
white, full moon’s bright fixture;
winter’s foreign n-iceness,
snowy flakes and hoar-frost,
freight-truck wheels plodding
forward through s-low, slush toss.

Alecsei Burdew a poet of Russia draws this imagistic pic from Realist Russian poet Afanasy Fet (1820-1892).

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Гамлет

Гул затих. Я вышел на подмостки.
Прислонясь к дверному косяку,
Я ловлю в далеком оттолоке,
что случится на моем веку.

На меня наставлен сумпак ночи
тысячью биноклей на оси.
Если только можно, Абба Отче,
чашу ету мимо пронеси.

Я люблю твой замысел упрямый
и играть согласен ету роль.
Но сейчас идет другая драма,
и на єтот раз меня уволъ.

Но продуман распорпядок действий,
И неотвратим конец пути.
Я один, все тонет в фариисействе.
Жизнъ прожитъ—не поле перейти.

 

Hamlet
          by Alecsei Durbew

The noise subsides. I walk onto the stage.
While leaning on the lining of the door,
I try to, in a far-off echo, gauge
what will, within my life and age, occur.

Ay me, I’m pinned by night’s eternal show;
a thousand op’ra glasses point at me.
If you are able, Abba Father, o,
please take this cup I do not want to drink.

I love your hard, unwavering design;
and I’m content to play my given role.
But now another play unfolds in time,
and just this once, I beg, release my soul.

But this predestined plot proceeds undone;
and I can’t change the course that I am on.
I’m all alone, sunk in oblivion.
Life’s not a walk across a field with dawn.

The poem “Hamlet” is a poem by Modernist Russian poet Boris Pasternak (1890-1960), the “translation” is by Alecsei Burdew. It is so hard to move from one language into another language, and yet it has it has a certain kind of value, a certain slant of light.

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A 46-Year-Old Loses His Job
          by Cid Wa’eeb El Sur

The chief muezzin of the Al-Jazzar Mosque lost his job,
because officials found him in a body-building slog.
The voice of Ibrahim al-Masri had been common in
north Israel in Acre on th’ Mediterranean.
But now because he has been seen in wire-thin briefs in pics,
he won’t be calling Muslims forth for prayer. This is nix.
It’s unbecoming for a man to show “his modesty”.
What was he thinking doing that in 2017?
But every “sport has a specific type of clothing” used.
That this has happened there in Israel leaves him confused.

Cid Wa’eeb El Sur is a poet of the Middle East.

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The Protests in Sudan
          by “Scribe” El Uwade

Just fall. That’s all. The Sudanese have spoken broken words—
like freedom, peace and justice—meaningless. Where are the birds?
December 19, 2018, in Atbara, borne:
the cost of bread, brutality, a child we should mourn.

And still he hangs on to his power—Omar al-Bashir—
arrests, detentions, arbitrary: We are all Darfur.
Corruption, unemployment, poverty, austerity,
live ammunition, tear gas, a dead doctor on the street.

The coup in 1989, in power thirty years:
The deaths continue. Who hears? Empty stomachs have no ears.
The Human Rights Watch says that deaths are over fifty now,
including a dead teacher in detention—can’t get out.

“Scribe” El Uwade is a poet of the Nile, from the time of the ancient Egyptian pharaohs to more recent Egyptian and Sudanese dictators.

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The Gentle People
          by DeBuis Lawrece

The people come down from the hills at evening. We greet them.
The wood smoke follows down the valley. It’s the quiet time.
We walk with them a short way; for we won’t see them again.
They will pass o’er the ocean, hoping for naught but an end,
receiving sky, while we continue in this valley’s light,
from spring to autumn planting, reaping, standing, sleeping right.
And in blue winter’s night we dream of those departed kind,
the gentle, rural folk remembered by John Tranter’s mind,
where flying foxes summer eves past his veranda flapped,
their clumsy aerial trek towards sun-set—heart-felt, and )r(apt.

DeBuis Lawrece is a poet of Australia, Southeast Asia, and Oceania. John Tranter is a
contemporary Australian poet and publisher.

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An Ancient Boat
          by Aedile Cwerbus

That boat you see, guests, says it was the fastest boat in view;
it could surpass the speed of any, if it needed to.
With oar or sail it could soar forth; and it denies the shores
of Adriatic threatening negate this truth perforce,
nor th’ isles of the Cyclades, nor Rhodes’ spume plastering,
nor th’ wild Thracian Sea of Marmara’s rough whispering.
On Pontus Bay it stood within a wood of foliage,
uncut, its rustling, whistling leaves set on Cytorus’ Ridge.

The boat says these things have been well known from the early days;
like Pontiac Amatris, or the Argo, they amaze.
It boasts it stood on top above where oars dipped enraged seas,
and carried its great master, left or right in th’ whisking breeze.
It claims no prayers to shore gods were ever made by it,
when it came from the latest sea to this clear lake to whit.
But these events are earlier, it’s old, in hidden rest,
and casts aside its anchor here for Castor and his twin.

Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of ancient Rome. It is Catullus (84 BC -54 BC), from whom he
draws this poem.

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National Assembly Guaidó V. Dictator Maduro
          by Lud Wes Caribee

Juan Guaidó declared himself the acting president
of Venezuela, January 23rd last month;
because Maduro had rigged the election May, last year,
and cut the National Assembly off. Lots live in fear.
More than 3,000,000 people have already left the land;
the price and foreign currency controls don’t help, though planned;
skyrocketing hyperinflation, power outages,
along with all the medication and food shortages.
Although he lacks a military, Guaidó’s support
is in the millions in the country and around the World.

Lud Wes Caribee is a poet of the Caribbean.

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Aerogel
by Ira “Dweeb” Scule

The lightest solid known on planet Earth is aerogel.
It is so light it’s 99.8% pure air.
It’s made by taking all the liquid from gel silica
and leaving its molecular designed fabric in tact.
It’s made of tiny silicon dioxide particles
interconnected in a porous net, like barnacles.
Called frozen smoke or solid cloud, it’s blue, tranlucent dun,
first made by Samuel Stephens Kistler—1931.
By supercritical dry-offs, its matrix set remains,
synthetic, ultralight, like sandy, glassy window panes.

Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of scientia. Samuel Stephens Kisler (1900-1975) was an American scientist and engineer. The following poem by Beau Lecsi Werd notes “Some Neologisms” of Victorian polymath William Whewell (1794-1866), Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834) was a Romantic poet and Michael Faraday (1791-1867) a Romantic scientist.

Aristotelian William Whewell,
on the request of S. T. Coleridge,
invented the word scientist to tell
the difference between those of knowledge,
the philosophers, and those of science,
the naturalists. For Faraday he
coined the terms anode, cathode, and ion,
and also helped in crystallography.

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Big Brother’s Watching You
          by Esca Webuilder

No matter who you are some will find fault with what you say.
Someone won’t like what you have said or how you tried to pray.
It seems that everyone’s a critic, cutting down to size
whomever they don’t like, whether it’s ladies, babes or guys.
So patter on in patterns. Don’t give in to incensed geeks,
nor red-tape bureaucrats in hats, or censor-bully freaks.
There always will be someone who won’t like what you might say.
PC Police are on patrol. This is the Jackal’s Day.
So watch your words. Remember spies are everywhere you go.
Big Brother’s watching you. Are you not glad you have Big Bro?

 

Cybernetic Texts
          by Esca Webuilder

Back during World War II, he, Norbert Weiner, worked upon
technology of guided missiles with feedback response.
He noticed that the feedback principle was also true
in life forms, plants and animals, and complex humans too,
who change their actions in response to their environments,
as well as larger groups, like institutes and governments.
From this, he then developed cybernetics, which combined
electrical machines to aspects of the human mind.
He had a theory of communication and control,
those human messages that time is destined to unroll.

Esca Webuilder is a poet of communication between humans and machines. Norbert Wiener (1894-1964) contributed to mathematics, electronic engineering, computer science, artificial intelligence, robotics and automation.

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Mundane Monday Jaunt
          by Carb Deliseuwe

I saw him in the veg’tables, and later in the fruit.
His tat on upper arm made him a bit of a galoot.
He pushed his cart amidst the grapes, the grapefruit and the kale.
He checked his purchases and wondered if there was a sale.
Then afterwards, I noticed him among the bottled drinks,
the diet coke and root beer, where his attitude was keen.
Amidst the plastic water bottles and the powerade:
What was he searching for to satisfy his thirsty raid.
That slightly bulky dude in blue jeans and a baseball cap,
then took off for far other parts within the store to shop.

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food, who is interested in capturing snapshops of ordinary life.

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The Writer
          by Wilbur Dee Case

The writer sits back on his seat, his pen is poised in hand;
he’s stretched out in his lounge, like an iguana on the sand.
He writes upon a paper pad that sits upon his lap.
He takes a glass of beer up to his mouth and takes a sip.
Upon the beach, far out of reach of any other soul,
the shadows cross his shoulders and his crossed legs, dapple-glow.
A distant building rises storeys up above the palms.
He cups the glass in his left palm; it is a kind of balm.
His pen is poised above the pad out in the open air.
His trunks are tight; the Sun is bright. What is he writing there?

Wilbur Dee Case is a poet and literary critic of the ordinary and the mundane.

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Give Me No Tears
          by Bic Uwel “Erased”

Give me no tears, nor grieve my funeral.
I was no senator, nor general.
None heeded words I wrote. None cared I lived.
Cry for humanity. For them tears give.

Give me no tears. They would be wasted, all.
For I am no great individual.
Nobody needed words I typed or penned.
Cry for the other souls. To them tears send.

Give me no tears. I am not worthy, no.
I was an ordinary man, no more.
No, do not cry. I only wrote some words.
Cry for poor flesh and trees, poor stars and birds.

Bic Uwel, “Erased”, is a poet of the unknown.

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The Wind
          by Bucalese Werdi
          “a segreto sillabe nutro”
              — Salvatore Quasimodo

Oh, how I wish the wind was calm, and silent too,
that all this raging blowing would recede, retreat.
I long for quiet days beneath the sunny blue,
where I am well at peace with no new need, nor beat.
But ever does the wind proceed. Never will it pause.
It rages on. It races on. It has no seat
to sit upon and stop. My longing is as gauze,
a futile whisper, whining in the stormy blast.
So who cares when a soul slows down or follows laws,
because, in the great scheme of things, those do not last?
Oh, please send me a breeze or two. I’ll take a few.
I yearn to rest my bones before this too has passed.

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That Celestial Country
          by Bucalese Werdi

That place that I have been, all of my life, trying
to get to, down these arteries of the soul,
filled with trials, ordeals, struggles, hopes, and crying,
remains across that sea, a near, yet distant, goal.
That place appears so different inside a boat
than from this shore where I and Don Quixote stroll.
He sighs for Maconda. I patrol the moat.
That we shall e’er escape this air I do not think.
That place I long to reach, that city high afloat
in azure, shimmering, bright white, pure gold and pink,
around which scatter seabirds, cumulus, flying
as in a vision, beckons even while I sink.

Bucalese Werdi is a poet of Modernist, Postmodernist and New Millennial Italy. Salvatore Quasimodo (1901-1968) was a Sicilian novelist and poet. The following poem draws from contemporary Italian poet Luigi Fontanella.

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To Dawn
          by I Warble Seduce

It’s evening. An aroma of roses
arises in the garden. Sunlit rays
of gold enfold the myrrh and frankincense,
a carpet under you, the best of days.

Night lays down slowly. I can still smell them—
there dangling, each sweet honeysuckle gem,
the roses wafting in th’ air as we stepped,
a song of love, while summer gladly slept.

Dawn came, you know, between the hand and thorn.
Your hair flowed on the wind through time’s eclipse.
Dew drops adorned your ears and your soft lips,
so heavenly alive, oh, in that morn.

It was an evening of lovely roses—
the sun shown on—I ‘ll hold it forever.

I Warble Seduce is a poet of love.

 

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