The Milky Way
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
The Milky Way is being pushed across the Universe,
according to the research, by a large and unseen force.
Dipole Repeller, as it seems, is shoving us along,
amidst Laniakea Supercluster’s star-thick throng.
The Milky Way is moving now, fast from sparse, empty space,
towards those more crowded regions of the cosmic interface.
Brent Tully, at the Honolulu Astro Institute,
compared this to a giant tug-of-war of starry brutes;
more star-chunks at one end will cause the flow to come to them,
and cause the flow to go away from weak-chumps in the Gym.
A Place to Park
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
We were proceeding through the dense star-studded galaxies,
the oval spirals swirling round in grand palatial seas.
We knew that something wasn’t right. We sensed it in the sounds
of eeriness and quiet terror making mental rounds.
And yet, we still continued on through vast arrays of dark.
Our spaceship couldn’t pause to rest. There was no place to park.
We knew we had to press on, oh, there was no other way.
We wondered if we ever would again be greeting day.
We passed so many varied shapes, bizarre artistic finds.
Intense anxiety filled up our bodies and our minds.
And then we saw a moon progressing round a planet’s orb,
appearing like a giant ball, perhaps an air-borne globe.
We saw the clouds, like streams of steam, there floating near the sphere;
and then we thought, that if we stopped, perhaps we could live here.
I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the cosmos.
Eclipse, January 20, 2019
by Ibe Ware Desu, LC
In the cold, dark sky,
Earth casts its foggy shadow:
super blood wolf moon.
Ibe Ware Desu, LC, is a poet of Japan.
Trains in Tokyo, Japan
by “Wired Clues” Abe
It’s hard to miss, when taking trains in Tokyo, Japan,
the white-gloved workers calling out and pointing with their hands.
Known in Japan as shisa kanko, movements such as these,
supposedly make actions by the workers clearly seen.
Developed in late Meiji period, they linger on;
the safety of 12,000,000,000 passengers cannot be wrong.
Ensuring that the actions taken are confirmed as such,
the classic point-and-call keeps railway workers close in touch.
And though at times they are so packed, oyishas shove on swarms,
on clean and tidy subway platforms in crisp uniforms,
the passengers are thankful for such functionality,
well-known superiority, and punctuality.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of Japanese manufacturing, technology and industry. “12,000,000,000 passengers” is the approximate ticket count per year.
by Druse el Becawi
We saw the star of green and red, of gold and blue and white,
the universal mind and soul, the Word of cause and might.
We saw the golden ratio of temperance and phi,
and followed Plato, Aristotle, and Socratic why.
We saw the ones who call, though we are ignorant ourselves,
and follow to the ends of life the Shayk of al-Aql.
We focus on belief, in patriotic sacrifice,
in loyalty and honesty, in reincarnate strife.
We try to blend in with the country we find ourselves in,
but still identify ourselves as unitarian.
Druse El Becawi is a poet of the Druse.
The Skyline of Jerusalem
by Esecwiel Barud
It is too much to take…in…any time at all.
Too much is in ‘t—the skyline of Jerusalem:
the gold Dome of the Rock beside the Wailing Wall,
the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, Yad Vashem,
the Via Dolorosa, the Shrine of the Book,
the Tower of David, the Valley of Hinnom.
Upon Mount Olivet, wherever one might look,
one has to take it in—the force of history,
the failing of humanity, what’s been forsook,
all that time took, veiled in a vale of misery,
and gates that lead to somewhere old through which we fall
to th’ hour of our present—and eternity.
Esecwiel Barud is a poet of Israel.
by Darius Belewec
Upon the top of Sololaki, Kartlis Deda stands,
in her right hand, a sword, a bowl of wine, in her left hand.
The twenty meter statue of aluminum, so hilt,
for Georgia’s fifteen-hundredth anniversary, was built.
Below a statue rises in Tbilisi’s Freedom Square,
bronze, gilt in gold, Saint George stabs hard, the dragon in the air.
Atop a granite column, over thirty metres high,
a gift from sculptor Zurab Tsereteli in the sky.
This land beset by wolves, once home of Joseph Stalin too,
o, Sakartvelo, in the Caucusus, a gift come true.
Darius Belewec is a poet of the Caucusus.
Tibullus (55 BC-19 BC)
Twixt Gallus and Propertius, sits short-lived Tibullus,
who died the same time, as did Publius Vergilius,
according to Ovidius, found in his Tristia.
His elegies’ main loves were Nemesis and Delia.
Messalla’s friend, especi’lly in his fierce campaign in Gaul;
he aided in his glory there, though how much, hard to call.
And so he turned from war to love and happy rural scenes,
although he knew that Rome was doomed to rule vast earthly lands.
A friend to Macer and Cornutus, Marathus as well,
but his relation to Lygdamus none could really tell.
Simplicity, lucidity, and verses sleek and smoothe,
his country joys and passions make a beauty of his truths.
by Aedile Cwerbus
Albinovanus Pedo, he who wrought a Thesiad,
wrote also on an expedition into the North Sea,
that of Germanicus, which Tacitus applied
in Annals II at xxiii, when he had that described.
In turgid style Pedo shows the nervousness of dudes
who braved the unknown hazards of the higher latitudes
beyond the limits of the Globe, in sunless, hopeless realms,
where monsters thrive down deep in dive, whose great size overwhelms.
So Pedo, though Augustan, forms a link to later days,
declamatory lines composed suggest the Silver Age.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of ancient Rome. Imagine if only twenty-three lines were left, after 2000 years, of two epics you had written. The lines referred to above of Albinovanus Pedo were written around 16 AD, when Germanicus made his sea journey north. They were saved by Seneca.
James Joyce (1882-1941)
James Joyce, Fame’s choice, is slowly vanishing into time’s tooth.
His streams of consciouness are little more than ver-bal-mouth.
There’s little doubt, that at the end, he turned into a driv’l,
his clothes unbuttoned, and his close both trivial and swiv’l.
He shared his cryptolect with schizophrenic Lucia,
and drank away his intellect before war’s noose was on.
He was an ex-isled Irishman, who said good-bye to them:
Yeats, Wilde, Shaw, within the craw of pandemonium.
His odyssey across the sea saw sites he could not see,
his words, a dialog with voices of insanity.
Caught in the tides of history, lost in prosaic dreams,
he left the World many words in awful, novel memes.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet and literary critic of the Modernist era.
Maurits Cornelis Escher (1898-1972)
by Red Was Iceblue
In 1891, A. Schönflies and E. Federov,
together classified the 17 wallpaper groups.
In 1924, George Pólya popularized them
in his relating crystal structures to the patterns then.
Among those interested by the paper Pólya wrote
was M. C. Escher, after brother Berend’s mental note,
inspired by Alhambra, drawn in by the realms of math,
in woodcuts, lithographs and mezotints, he took a path,
ascending and descending, coming right out of the plane,
a metamagic phantadox perspectively arrained.
Arthur Moritz Schönflies (1853-1928) was a German mathematician and Evgraf Stepanovich Federov (1853-1919) was a Russian mathematician, crystallographer and mineralogist. Hungarian mathematician George Pólya (1887-1985) was noted for the craft of problem posing and its proof, the Pólya Enumeration Theorem, the Pólya-Vinogradov Inequality, the Pólya-Szego Inequality, the Pólya Inequality, the Hilbert-Pólya Conjecture that the Riemann Conjecture might be a consequence of spectral theory (partially proved by a team of physicists), the inductive fallacy, “All horses are the same colour”, and naming the Central Limit Theorem. Pólya was a teacher par excellence. Euclidrew Base once paraphrased Pólya’s investigation of a problem in an heptametre couplet:
“First, understand the problem; second, then devise a plan;
third, carry out that plan; and last, look back at what you’ve done.”
Of the neologism “arrained”, Beau Lecsi Werd wrote that it means “purposefully displayed” and is a combination of arranged, arrayed, arraigned, and ordained.
Fondation Louis Vuitton
by Arcideb Usewel
Fondation Louis Vuitton, set in a Paris park,
is like a fleet of sail boats unable to embark,
with steel columns and glue-laminated timber beams,
as if they were all smashed by a white whale’s glassy dreams,
or crashed into an iceberg in the shoal of modern art,
a Guggenheim and Disney Concert Hall wind-blown apart.
Frank Gehry’s acrobatic architectural design
in the Bois de Boulonge in the Jardin, is not divine,
but playful and diaphanous, bizarre and rather strange,
as if it were a sculpted building that was rearranged.
Arcideb Usewel is a poet of architecture.
Verbindung 01, 1 June 2015, 40 cm by 50 cm
by Red Was Iceblue
The back-ground’s orange, full. The picture is rectangular.
Here seven horizontal lines cross seven verticals—
all white, but one that’s yellow, and all nearly reach the sides.
The central eight-by-six near-squares are similar in size.
In column four, the second square is brilliant yellow gold;
the sixth one down is green, as it sits near the four below,
a pale blue above a blue, a gray above a black,
as if they were all settled in a two-by-two hued track.
Hans-Bernhard Meyer’s picture, Acrylfarben auf Leinwand,
connects in many ways, but never manages to bond.
by Red Was Iceblue
Born in Vitebsk in 1955, he studied art
at college, and with Barowski, when Marc Chagall lived there.
Chernobyl caused the Belarusian’s move to Israel,
where he improved artistic’lly in th’ sun-bathed atmosphere.
From there he went to New York, Florida, and Mexico,
where he could sell his paintings on the Internet; and so,
absorbing pointillism and impressionistic art,
he could start painting what he wanted, images of heart.
A heart bypass, 2009, his business run by sons,
the man of rain-wet paths and love could lay back in the Sun.
With oils, canvas, palette-knife, he caused such shimmering,
the trees, the city lights, in red, blue, orange, yellow, green,
the beauty of the evening, scenes so clear and cleanly seen;
the man from Belarus whose paint was caught imagining.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of Modernist, Postmodernist, and New Millennial art.
by Wes Caribu Deel
I saw him sitting in the corner, finger in his nose,
in big sunglasses, gruff, brown beard, and ordinary clothes,
long-sleeved, light gray sweat shirt, dark jeans, a semi-subdued dude,
a personal appeal, effectively affecting rude.
Beside a table on which sit some flowers in a vase,
in front of silver windows, to the left he turns his face,
and scans the postapocalyptic literary scape
high from his perch—Toronto—half amused and half misplaced,
upon a game quest, seated, CN Tower near his words,
550 meters—his light saber, laser sword.
Leopold McGinnis is a Canadian author, poet, and founder of the online literary journal Red Fez.
In a Stairwell
by Urbawel Cidese
I saw him falling in a stairwell, flat against his ass.
He held himself upon the railing, with both hands he grasped.
In black boots and black pants, his skin a shiny copper brown,
he tried to keep himself afloat, from further falling down.
He was a pile of frustration on those light gray steps.
Next to the drab and light green walls, one saw that he was spent.
What hope was there for him—that guy? Would he get out of there?
His eyes were dark, his chin was stark, his skin went everywhere.
I wished that I could pull him up, but such was not to be;
for if I dared to help him out, his weight would pull
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban spaces.
New Year’s Rezzo-lushuns
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
1. Avoid extreme sport venues, table tennis, curling, tones.
2. Buy new clothes so to mix and match all of my older ones.
3. Spend more time watching TV, adding weight to all my bones.
4. Learn novel things, like love, or playing double xylophones.
5. Try to be much more mis’rable, and speak with deeper groans.
6. Renew relationships, so they can fall apart like scones.
7. Do not proceed to travel, lest it be on target drones.
8. Procrastinate more, so I can disturb time’s other zones.
9. Try to get more stress in my life, and share it on my phones.
10. Drink vodka when I can, elsewise drink spit from saxophones.
11. Give both my lungs a greater workout, eating yogurt cones.
12. Be far less helpful both to animals and zombie clones.
13. Read more, emails, memos, meeting minutes, and car loans.
14. Conclude that new career that remained in the unknowns.
15. Tell people how much I love people, while I’m throwing stones.
16. Drive more offensively, so I can have the finger jones.
17. Be late more often, so I can hear other people’s moans.
18. Be far less ethnic’lly aware, so I can be alone.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of the gym. He remember in the 8th grade climbing up a thick rope in the middle of the gargantuan gymnasium, and slapping his hand on the ceiling—with no net. It was required for a grade.