To Day
by E. Birdcaws Eule
So slowly it reveals itself,
the silvery white dawn,
as it breaks free from night’s black shelf,
and Sun’s gold light turns on.
The faint gray disentangles from
the ebony abyss,
and fainter blues in sections come
across the vast canvas.
The time goes by and once again
my eyes can see the world,
that lately left, not long ago,
upon its axis whirled.
O, I am thankful just to see
its beauties clear and bright;
but then when I remember all—its impurities…
I fondly think of night.
E. Birdcaws Eule is a poet of birds. His favourite bird is the owl, an occasional symbol of wisdom.
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To Night
by I Warble Seduce
Oh, lovely Night, you fabricator of the Day,
embellishing our world with your crazed sleights of hand.
You send the bright, full moon to light our merry way;
and mountains flatten, seas dry up, at your command.
Oh, you inhabitor of hollow, empty minds,
you alchemist of Love, sweet chimera unmanned,
although you cannot see, because you’ve closed the blinds,
we are enamored of the beauties that you bring.
Your works are dark, and stark, though they’re amazing finds;
they leave us cold and cautious, weary, wondering.
Half of my life is yours, whether I sleep or wake;
asleep, I’m unaware, awake, I’m wandering.
Valentine
by I Warble Seduce
The bright full moon shines
indiscriminantly on
passionate lovers.
I Warble Seduce is a poet of Love.
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Lines After Penio Penev
by Bulcari Edesew
The people and the sunsets shall grow dim and vanish then,
as feelings, dreams and memories; this is the fate of men;
but so too shall acacia blooms, the trees and evening star;
that is the fate of everything, including what we are.
But like a water spout, we shall shout out, loud as a bell;
new generations shall appear and sprout within this hell.
And birds shall sing, new mothers hold their babies in their arms.
The morning star shall reappear among the shining stars.
The twiggy nests shall hold new eggs, the violets shall rise,
and love shall show its face again. O, God, those lovely eyes.
A Love Rabbit: After Georgi Gospodioiv
by Bulcari Edesew
‘I won’t be long,’ she quickly said, and left the door ajar.
It was a special evening there beneath the evening star.
In disks, some garlic, onions, carrots, she had neatly chopped;
a rabbit stew was slowly cooking on the kitchen hob.
She put no lipstick on. She didn’t take a coat or hat.
I didn’t ask where she was going, since she is like that.
She never had a sense of time. In fact, she’s always late;
it didn’t matter what event, a meeting or a date.
Then six years later, she’s all worried, at a distant mall,
like someone who forgot an unplugged iron in the hall.
‘Did you turn off the stove?’ she asks. She looks a little rough.
‘Not yet,’ I answered tersely, ‘rabbits can be very tough.’
Bulcari Edesew is a poet of Bulgaria. Penio Penev (1930-1959) was a Bulgarian poet. Georgi Gospodinov is a contemporary Bulgarian poet, novelist and playwright.
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Pic of a Photographer
by Bulcari Edesew
“Details, details…”
—Lights
From Sofia, Bulgaria, his name is Kirilson.
He is a theoretic physicist, a virile one,
who’s also learning to be a photographer of sorts
by taking pictures with his cameras, in rough, clear quartz.
He’s worked and studied years in Netherlands and Germany,
and also in the lovely booted leg of Italy;
but though he’s back in Sofia, he loves his traveling
around the World, as it spins around, unraveling.
Enthralled by art, he captures those responding to art too,
from architecture to graffiti, seeking points of view.
In hood, or bald, you’ll find him lodged behind a camera,
recording with his focused eyes and austere stamina.
Bulcari Edesew is a poet of Bulgaria. Kirilson is a contemporary Bulgarian photographer
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Carl Ludwig Siegel
by Euclidrew Base
Carl Ludwig Siegel is best known for contributions to
the Thue-Siegel-Roth Theorem, which they found would be true,
a given alpha may not have too many rational
approximations that are ‘very good’ and actual.
He well refined the meaning of that which was ‘very good’,
so such a complex concept could be better understood.
He added to the Smith-Minkowski-Siegel formula,
which tabulates the sum of weights of genus lattices,
that is, quadratic forms, so weighted by reciprocals
of orders of their automorphic groups’ “symmetricals.”
And that is only the beginning of all that he did;
there is so much within a single life one can’t get it.
The most impressive mathematician he’d ever met
was what Norwegian Alte Selberg said of him, and yet,
without a drop of hesitation, André Weil said
that Siegel was the very greatest mathematician
of the first half of the 20th century, o, yes,
a time filled with so many of the very good and best.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics and mathematicians, One of his favourite mathematical historians is Carl Ludwig Siegel (1896-1981), who would read original mathematical texts with his students in class.
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GroupThink 101
by Sadire U. Beclew
The groupthink that pervades the theoretic physicists
is not so diff’rent from that which plagues climatologists.
Where is dark matter? or the new dimensions locked in space?
or particles of supersymmetry? Is there some trace?
But there have been an awful lot of null-results, it seems,
and, yes, as Sabine Hossenfelder notes, some grand pipe dreams.
Spend $20,000,000,000 more. Replace the LHC.
At times, I feel I’m in Laputa with astrology.
Two decades back, John Rennie sacked Bjorn Loborg’s poli-seize,
now global warming’s turned into a climate changing frieze.
I can’t keep up with all this chasing after money stuff.
The truth is that, at times, I can’t keep up with all this guff.
Sadire U. Beclew is a poet of scientific intension, pretension, and extension. Writers mentioned include Frankfurt researcher Hossenfelder, former Scientific American editor-in-chief Rennie, and Danish think-tank author Loborg. LHC is Large Hadron Collider. As Beau Lecsi Werd notes, “poli-seize” sounds like policies; but what does it mean?—political policing?
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Insect Declines
by “Lice Brews” Ueda
Perhaps our planet’s at the start of mass extinction runs,
like disappearing larger animals and smaller ones.
Intensive agriculture’s use of pesticides has caused
declines in insect numbers, where they pay a heavy cost.
Too, urbanization is causing large insect declines
says Sánchez-Bayo and Kris Wyckhuys in their written lines.
Amongst the very worst hit are the moths and butterflies;
and honeybees and bumblebees are dropping dead, like flies.
Varroa mites are damaging bee-hives with their disease;
but human growth is also wreaking havoc on all these.
Since insects are important for fish and amphibians,
reptiles, birds, and other creatures, humans could get stung.
Four Haiku
by “Lice Brews” Ueda
Shining in the grass—
a slender golden-silver
cigarette pack top.
* * * * *
Down past the alder,
a monarch butterfly flaps,
a dry, beige leaf falls.
* * * * *
There is no fly
here, no Buddha, no Issa.
There is only rain.
* * * * *
Scurrying about
is an ant upon a log
on a burning fire.
“Lice Brews” Ueda is a poet of the small. One of his favourite prose poems is “The Bonfire and the Ants” by Russian Postmodernist Alexander Solzhenitsyn. Though insect population drops are significant, are they, as some nonscientists in the media portray them, a hyperalarming insectapocalypse?
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The MyZeil Shopping Complex Mall
by Arcideb Usewel
The MyZeil Shopping Complex Mall in Frankfurt, Germany,
looks like a spacey sci-fi super, hyper gallery.
Designed by Massimiliano Fuksas, starchitect;
he placed a vortex in its centre that’s hard to forget.
The glassy structure’s curved and partially rotated round
its axis, thus extending out its many metered mound.
Inspired by a canyon with a river running through,
it has the longest self-supporting escalator too.
But nothing can compete with that huge vortex curlicue,
an inward trumpet heralding a brave and brand new view.
Arcideb Usewel is a poet of architecture. The thing that most surprised him when he first landed in Frankfurt was how small and clean the trucks and vehicles were.
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Chad Parenteau
by Cadwel E. Bruise
He’s out there on the front lines, in the trenches of new verse,
a mercenary, who’s for hire, righting things his curse.
He’s ever working, never shirking poetry’s demands;
it’s as if he’s some deity with four arms and four hands.
He’s balancing so many projects in these crazy times;
he’s ever busy doing things and fighting with dead lines.
He helps lost causes of the oddballs he has come to know,
and keeps their constant ammunition ever on the go.
He ladles stone soup out to others, serves a hungry flock.
Beside hard, raging battles, he’s an island and a rock.
Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of New England. One of Cadwel E. Bruise’s favourite poetic lyricists, when he was a teen, was Paul Simon, from whose song the last line comes, albeit reversed with an entirely different meaning, island here a place of invitation, and rock, a strong and stalwart, not isolated, place.
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The Glove
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
It sits upon the wooden boards, the glove that fits
th’ hard working man, the empty left hand, rugged wear,
beside a couple of dark-gray nails, hammer hits,
out in the open air, flat, disregarded, bare.
The orange-brown and leather glove, its fingers dark,
as stiff and tough as he who dared to wear it there
in that extensive realm of shuck and chore, so stark,
the labor of a neighbor helping build a house.
But now it’s time to party, park that tan glove down.
How ’bout a little bit o’ beer? a bottle douse?
That’s how he does it when the sun begins to set.
He leaves behind the glove to get a little soused.
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of Texas.
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Iranian Scientist Flees For His Life
by Delir Ecwabeus
An unnamed scientist, who worked in Iran’s nuke program,
was smuggled out December, thinking he was a dead man.
Debriefed in Israel, he left for Europe recently,
and reached the UK in a dinghy as a refugee.
Iranian authorities discovered he was gone,
assembling a special unit, so to hunt him down.
The plan to land in Dover failed; the boat had gone off course;
he ended up instead in Lydd, reported in the press.
But few knew he was with the migrant refugees that day.
Debriefed by MI6, he then fled to the USA.
Delir Ecwabeus is a poet of Iran. This week Nobel Peace Laureate Shirin Ebadi called for more pressure against the clerical establishment in Iran. She recalled the early heady days of the revolution in 1979, when millions believed there would be greater freedoms and more prosperity. But she knew it was a disaster, when tens of thousands of women took to the streets back then in celebration of International Women’s Day, and any woman not wearing a hijab was attacked and beaten by thugs with batons and sticks.
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Picture from a Detention Camp
by Si Ulec Badewer
The Uighur poet and musician Abdurehim Heyit
is seen in a still image taken from a video.
“He is in very good health and he has not been abused.”
Chinese authorities insist the video is true.
He sits against a wall that’s made of giant gray square tiles,
clad in gray sweater of small squares; ironic is his smile.
He says he’s being looked at for the breaking of some laws.
He has been sentenced for eight years for just one of his songs.
Perhaps he was coerced, with digitally altered bliss.
Chinese authorities insist that nothing is amiss.
Chinese authorities insist he is, in fact, not dead.
Chinese authorities insist he is alive instead.
Si Ulec Badewer is a poet of central Asia, in those lands at the edges of China and Russia. The song is Atilar (Oh, Fathers) to which he plays his dutar. The author of the lyrics, Abdurehim Abdulla, was also arrested at the same time. The phrase that got both of them in trouble with the authorities in 2017 was the phrase “jenglerde shehit” (martyrs of war). Translated by Aziz Isa Elkun, one stanza from the song reads:
“When I fell down mother cried
Father picked me up and put me back on my horse
He trained me well to withstand hardship
So as not to be abused by my enemies”
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Imperialism in 2019
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
Imperialist China keeps its pressure on the Earth.
It creeps upon most everything it can—for all its worth.
It’s not content to make damn sure that Hong Kong is not free.
It also wants to own Tibet and the South China Sea.
And under its Grand Pooh-Bah Emperor it wants control
of all its people, all their lives. It wants…to kill…their Soul.
But that is not enough. No, it must do just what it please.
It wants to take Taiwan away, yes, from the Taiwanese.
And so, this week, it should not come as a surprise at all
when the Prime Minister of India dared pay a call
to northern India, to the Arunchal Pradesh state,
that livid, iron-fisted Chinese Communists showed hate.
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of New Millennial China. When Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi went this week to Arunchal Pradesh, an “integral and inalienable part of India”, and inaugurated several projects in the region, the Chinese Foreign Ministry said it “resolutely opposes” any activities whatsoever by Indian leaders in the region.
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