Wise Words with Bruce Wise

 

Tanka
          by Ue “Bird Claws” Ee

In dim morning light,
attracting mates, warning males,
dawn’s choir’s singing—
liquid-silver jingling—
nature’s alarm clock…ringing.

Haiku
by Ue “Bird Claws” Ee

Small, but fierce—piercing—
the trill from a bird’s beak—held…
in place—by bird claws.

Ue “Bird Claws” Ee is a poet of Japan and birds.

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On the 30-Year Anniversary of Tianammen
          by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei

All Chinese educators must respond to faulty thoughts,
when teaching ideology to ro-bust student-bots.
Avoid Progressive errors, Western values, drugged-up nerds;
inspectors will be sent to monitor all teachers’ words.
Primary, secondary, and the tertiary schools
must nurture talent that’s in line with Socialistic rules.
We must not read, write, speak or think about Tiananmen.
It is important to inculcate pa-tri-o-ti-sm.
We must crack down on democratic protests everywhere,
and monitor the Internet. Free speech is bad. Beware.

Lu “Reed ABCs” is a poet of China. Xi Jinping rationalizes his brand of socialism, which is really nothing more than outright tyranny. He believes his views are what is best for China.

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A Picture of Hong Kong
          by Li “Web Crease” Du

The view from Hong Kong Island, looking north
out o’er the Central district and Kowloon,
divided by the fragrant port, high floors;
Pearl River pours forth beneath monsoon
influence, sun or moon, and even in
th’ occasional typhoon, its rich polluted floes
hidden in the beauty of the evening,
when start those glittering, bejewel’d shows.
Never did night more lovelier encase
a shining bracelet of skyscrapered gems;
so high, packed thick, due to lack of sprawl space,
where live and work the millions in those stems,
above that definitely fatal place,
the 14th floor, such flow’ry diadems.

Li “Web Crease” Du is a poet of New Millennial China.

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A Mumbai Moment
          by Sai Deebec Wurl
          “…Mumbai seems sometimes to be choking on its own traffic…”
              —Shashi Tharoor

All of a sudden you discover you
are in a city with a smartphone in
your hand and you are drowning in the new
technology, everything in motion,
and you cannot find peace, or even rest;
so you begin to run just to keep up,
because each day you have to take another test,
and all you want to do is sleep and sup.
The cars race all around you on the walk.
You turn to cross the street. You stand and wait
until a signal points to the next block,
and then you go along, at any rate.
So many jostle you this way and that,
you look upward and shout: ‘Where am I at?’

Sai Deebec Wurl is a poet of India. In many ways he prefers Bollywood to Hollywood.

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At the Oasis
              by Secwer El Dubai

The cool air blows across the rough, dry skin so soothingly.
It fans so smoothly, fanning like a softly moving breeze.
It is as if the sandy desert hills arise unloosed.
It is as if the dunes themselves are given a boon boost.
Beneath the golden, glowing moon, the palm leaves stay, but sway;
their dark trunks bound unto the ground climb in the airy bay;
and even hairs upon the legs of animals on fours
twitch gently, almost tendrils, o’er the display of pores.
And when the bony camel comes and falls down to its knees,
he too participates, partakes in the relieving breeze.

Secwer El Dubai is a poet of Arabian fantasy.

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The Bering Sea Event
              by Rus Ciel Badeew

A fireball exploded over Bering Sea last year;
December 2018 a huge meteor appeared
The second largest fireball, since Chelyabinsk occurred,
as NASA data can recall, that blew up over Earth.
It moved 100,000 plus kilometres per hour,
unleashing more than Nagasaki’s kilotons of pow’r,
more than the power of 500,000 lightning strikes,
though less than the Tunguska blast and Chelyabinsk’s great might.
The speedy space-rock was compressed, which caused it to explode,
10 meters long, 1/18th as strong as was Chicxulub.

Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of “steely Russian skies”: the Bering Sea Event happened December 18, 2018, Chelyabinsk 2013, and Tunguska 1908. The Chicxulub Meteor hit about 66,000,000 years ago, and possibly caused the deaths of many dinosaurs. His favourite song is Al Stewart’s “Roads to Moscow”. He vividly remembers listening to Al Stewart playing that song in Seattle, Washington.

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Andrey Kolmogorov on Metric Variation
              by Alecsei Durbew

The Russian, Andrey Kolmogorov, mathematician,
made contributions to his field that were significant,
within mechanics, turbulence and probability,
topology and computational complexity,
constructive logic, algorithmic information, and
artistic creativity he tried to understand.

In 1960 he attacked old Russian poetry,
and sought to find its metric patterned regularity,
like Pushkin in “Eugene Onegin”, where he noted that
three-fourths of its iambic lines weren’t totally in tact.
In fact, more than one-fifth of even syllables weren’t stressed;
this variation he considered was the poet’s ess.

Alecsei Durbew is a poet of Russia sensibilities. Andrey Kolmogorov (1903-1987) was a Russian mathematician considered by some to be the founder of Modernist probability. Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837) was a major Russian Romantic poet.

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Andrey Kolmogorov
              by Euclidrew Base

In 1919, when he was just sixteen years of age,
his father, whom he never knew had vanished in the rage—
the Russian Civil War between the Reds and Whites and Greens.
Ten million died. It was indeed a horrifying scene.

In 1922, he had constructed out of air
a Fourier series that diverges almost everywhere.
In 1925, he studied under N. Luzin,
becoming friends with Alexandrov, 1929.

In 1936, he took part in th’ Luzin Affair;
N. Luzin was charged as a counter-revolutionaire.
The Great Purge had begun, and millions then were “tried” and killed;
but Luzin managed to escape, although he still was stilled.

In 1938, he’d founded basic theorems, yes,
for smoothing and predicting some stochastic processes.
In World War II, he worked upon defense barrage balloons,
for aiding Moscow from the German bombing squad platoons.

From 1941, he worked on fluid turbulence,
where larger eddy energies break into smaller ones.
Next year, he married Anna Egorova during war,
and started the KAM Theorem, 1954.

At Moscow University he laboured many years
at many jobs and varied fields in alternating gears.
And to the end he kept an active mathematic mind,
though suffering from Parkinson’s disease and nearly blind.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics and mathematicians. Joseph Fourier (1768-1830) was a French mathematician and physicist; Russians named above include Nikolai Luzon (1883-1950), Pavel Alexandrov (1896-1982) and Anna Egorova (1903-1988).

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Internal Stress
              by Duc Blaise Were

Resistance over the cross-section of the member is
the force that keeps the thing in equilibrium—its stress.
The concept of resistance of the molecules was seen
and formulated first by Frenchman Augustin Cauchy.
In 1822, he showed stress is th’ intensity
of the internal force of any member that we see.
Stress equals the internal force, divided by the thing’s
cross-section area, like newtons-per-square-meters—zing!
and, therefore, stress is independent of geometry,
or even the material of the said entity.

Duc Blaise Were is a poet of French classicism in literature and science, in philosophy and mathematics. Augustin Cauchy (1789-1857) was a French engineer and physicist. Likewise, he is one of Euclidrew Base’s favourite mathematicians.

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Federico García Lorca
              by Edwe Bleca Ruís

It was in August 1936
that he was taken from his earthly stage,
a boy who brought white sheets thick with word pics,
a basket of green limes and orange rage.

It was in August 1936
when harsh winds blew all peace in Spain away.
The chloride scattered glass and nickel bricks;
the dove and leopard struggled in the hay.

It was in August 1936.
A thigh clashed with a horn. Base notes were struck.
Gun smoke rose up past bells of arsenic,
while silent groups were in the corners stuck.

It was in August 1936.
The bull alone was holding his head high.
The sweat of snow came down in tiny flecks
and covered bull and ring in iodine.

It was in August 1936.
Death laid its eggs inside his wounded act.
No wheeled coffin hauled his corpse of pricks.
His fluted bones were never found intact.

It was in August 1936.
The bull was bellowing near his forehead.
The rainbowed room burst agonized and sick.
Gangrene agreed to take him to the dead.

It was in August 1936.
A lily trumpet in his green groin blew.
Like suns, his wounds burned fiercely on their wicks
and broke the windows with their boiling brew.

It was in August 1936.
Guards blew his lyric fountain to the moon.
His brother left the day before by six.
It wasn’t five o’clock in th’ afternoon.

It was in August 1936,
perhaps the 19th. No one knows for sure.
He had been murdered, carried off to Styx,
and tossed aside, like so many others.

Edwe Bleca Ruís is a poet of Spain. Federico García Lorca (1898-1936) was a Modernist Spanish poet and playwright who died at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War.

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The Abstract Painting on the Wall
              by Red Was Iceblue

The abstract painting on the wall was nothing more
than deep, rich browns, soft, pale whites, and velvet blacks.
For most its fused hues would have been an utter bore;
but not for me. I loved its curves, its nerve, its cracks.
It had a beauty, breaking all the bounds where it was framed,
inviting me to enter in its gorgeous tracks.
I saw at once the end at which the artist aimed;
it was the high ideal of the beautiful,
a perfect point of pulchritude, unmanned, unnamed,
a treasure spilling from its chest, rich booty, full,
a wealth of pleasure, leisure, measured at its core,
profuse, luxuriant, abundant, bountiful.

 

Sabin Howard
              by Red Was Iceblue

He steps off of the airplane of the gods,
in black tee shirt, sun glasses and black shorts,
and stops. Beneath the cirrus clouds, he nods.
It’s hard to say what he is going to’rds.
He trods along the furrowed sands of time,
his head, his arms, his hands, his legs, in bronze;
a Hermes soaring high through the sublime,
he meets the renaissance of a new dawn.
With grandeur, grace, perhaps nobility,
why not a sculptor in America?
With greatness, as was once in Italy,
why not create Bronx capolavori?
He looks across th’ Atlantic, open eyes,
and then extends his sternum to the skies.

Contemporary New York artist Sabin Howard is a Neoclassical New Millennial sculptor.

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A Door
              by Cruse Wadibele

This is a place quite near to here, there where a door might be,
here where I’m sitting at this monitor beside time’s sea.
Out in the light, outside these walls, there is a shadow here;
it’s all day long, a door leads to ‘t, inside of me, and near.
Somebody might show up and knock upon this quiet air,
long after I have gone away from here and I am there.
In front of me a life appears, a death has gone away.
The day is long. The day is sunny, bright. Long is the day.
He passed away in Maui, W. S. Merwin did,
far from New York, New Jersey, in the sunny island…died.

Cruse Wadibele is a poet of Hawaii. W. S. Merwin (1927-2019) was a Postmodern American poet.

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Haiku
              by Ibe Ware Desu, LC

The first day of Spring,
white flowering pear blossoms
cover the tan grass.

Lieutenant Commander Ibe Ware Desu is a poet intrigued by Japanese poetry, tanka and haiku, like the verbal pictures of Yosa Buson (1716-1784).

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The Sundial Bridge in Redding, California
              by Cal Wes Ubideer

The Santiago Calatrave Sundial bridge
in Redding, California, was inspired by geese.
Above the Sacramento River, it emer-
ges, a whitee tower rising up out of green trees.
It flies in steel, cement, ceramic tile and glass
with granite accents in lines, angles, curves and vees,
pedestrian, superb, unique. While salmon pass
beneath it—cantalever-spar and cable stayed,
a pierless composition nearly shadowless,
its sweeping gnomon pointing north, secure and staid—
assaults the sky and climbs beyond this slender ledge
by starchitect conceived, construction-worker lade.

Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California.

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The Aspect Was Spectacular
              Ubs Reece Idwal

I saw him driving on an awesome mountain highway bridge.
The aspect was spectacular from that amazing ridge.
He gazed upon that mighty arch with incredulity.
That grand achievement overwhelmed him to his being’s core.
He kept his fingers on the wheel, and followed every curve.
Beside him snow-lit trees stood, penetrating bone and nerve.
He crossed the rugged mountain pass, but paused to take a look.
The view was nothing short of grand. It was fantastic, cool.
He felt like he was at the dread edge of eternity.
He held the image in his his mind, a churning, burning feel.

Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Pacific Northwest.

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Vancouver Island in the Sunlight
              by Wes Caribu Deel

The colour was so real, I remember it right now,
Vancouver Island in the sunlight—brilliant, shining, wow.
The whales in the water, ferries crossing in the wind,
the fresh air spray across my face, the sky, the strait, my chin.
But memories are faint, those lovely days have gone away:
of children playing hockey on the pavement of the day,
of loving wife, secure and sure, of fleeting happiness,
a beauty in her mind and face, enduring crappiness.
Victoria was scintillating; but for me was sad;
I hit some garbage cans, my bumper dented, I got mad.

Wes Caribu Deel is a poet of Canada.

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The Husky Driver
              by Eb “Walrus” De Ice

I saw him traveling the Yukon many years ago,
across the glistening and cool white avenues of snow.
O, there beneath Aurora Borealis palace dreams,
he drove his ginger-coloured husky over icy streams.
He pressed his husky on to Dawson in the midnight sun.
He mushed him onward through those hills, but at a steady run.
He steered that frisky, furry fellow through the darkest days,
as if he were Jack London hounded by the hardest haze.
He prodded, goaded, spurred and urged, behind him all the way,
and did not stop until he dropped into time’s lovely bay.

Eb “Walrus” De Ice is a poe of the cold North. Jack London (1876-1916) was a novelist and short story writer, Buck in “Call of the Wild” was the original Uberdog.

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An Apparition
              by Bic Uwel, “Erased”

Unexpectedly,
fragile, faint and colourful,
a rainbow appeared.

Bic Uwel, “Erased” is a poet of the “erased”, that which existed, but is frequently overlooked, even lost.

 

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