by “Weird” Ace Blues
Fine, like a sculpture of Phidias,
though more likely to be made of
ivory, marble, or glass—
smooth curves carved in stone and/or love,
his poetry—pumice and porous,
cooled forms of lava, like sponge,
definitely near Horace
if not nearly so orange,
Pound—crashing into existence
with a fresh breathtaking vision—
violent, extreme, and insistent,
sure and rugged, shear ragged precision,
blasted into the atmophere’s blue,
hard, clear, and loud—ab arce extulit,
et rauco strepuerunt cornua cantu—
wildly passionate and exultant!
shaking the langu(age) new,
if not rosy or plastic or cinema,
certainly not false or true—
a snake’s forked tongue—venomous,
to a more powerful beat,
a rhythm dynamic and charged!
pulling the sandals off his feet,
throwing his toga to the birds and dogs!
fighting a part from the mud
of ideologue, dogma and doctrine,
all the muddle-headed scud
rushing this way and that for God knows what.
“Weird” Ace Blues is a Postmodern poet in search of a style. Phidias (490-430 BC) was an ancient Greek sculptor, painter and architect. The Latin quote comes from Vergil’s Aeneid VIII, L1-2. Horace (65-8 BC) was a Roman poet and friend of Vergil (70-19 BC).
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
Five amateur astrophotographers just recently
took a 1060-hour pic of LMC.
They snapped the Large Magellan’ Cloud from clear Chilean skies,
200,000,000 pixels in a large mosaic sigh.
160-mm APO-refractor scope
was what they used to capture their extr’ordinary post.
They filtered sulfur, hydrogen, and oxygen as well,
this group of French photograhers known as Ciel Austral.
Although the image is spectacular, to say the least,
a tiny, double-image nebula-stars can be seen.
I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of astrospace. The five photographers of Ciel Austral are Jean Cannone, Philippe Bernhard, Didier Champlain, Nicolas Outters, and Laurent Bourgone. The Large Magellanic Cloud is a distance of 50-kilo parsecs (about 163,000 light-years) away from the Milky Way.
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
What Jeffrey Ding learned from a year of ChinAI is this:
1) Language knowledge ain’t symmetrical; it’s un-bal-anced;
2) China’s AI capabilities ‘re too highly judged,
because their companies’ tech-works aren’t understood as much;
3) China’s government sees AI tech as governance,
their companies complicit in surveillance is their stance;
4) MSRA in Beijing promotes Chinese a lot,
but, at the very same time, also helps out Microsoft;
and last, 5) the Chinese themselves care all about AI,
philosophy and ethics, privacy and will it fly.
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet in China. MSRA is Microsoft Research in Asia.
The Semmering Railway
by Alec Subre Wide
The Semmering Railway which goes from Gloggnitz o’er
the Semmering to Mürzzuschlag, was th’ first railway,
from 1848 to 1854,
built in that difficult terrain with standard gauge;
and still is used by trains today in Austria,
2019. In the mountains—there you feel your age.
Through tunnels, over viaducts, and past the trees,
that cling precipitously to steep, rocky cliffs,
it travels over stone and iron bridges, cast
in awesome scenic settings—engineering riffs
of landscape gardening. One hears an engine roar;
an eagle soars. O, let us go and take a trip.
Alec Subre Wide is a poet of trains.
The Notion of Computability
by Euclidrew Base
The notion of computability was formalized
by Post and Turing back in 1936. Those guys,
each one, arrived at a Machine possessing endless tape,
divided into squares with but a finite number blank.
One starts leftmost and then proceeds along a long, long way,
until the halting problem halts…and it gets in the way.
In short, it is unsolvable, but just that means,
Turing Machines can’t stop; and thus, all rules for answering
not-finite question-sets are realized on these Machines.
PostTuring meaning has evolved, and so too thoughts of truth,
suggesting that they both transcend the power of a proof.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Both mathematicians American Emil Leon Post (1897-1954) and British Alan Mathison Turing (1912-1954) suffered from depression, but still had remarkable achievements. As of yet, machines can’t think, despite what Alan Turing thought.
by Eric Awesud Ble
“Give me my specs.”
—William Golding, “Lord of the Flies”
His chin was rough, like scratchy tough, sandpaper-rugged stubs.
His cheeks were puffy, like some chunky, cherub’s bobbling chubs.
He wore his basball cap on backwards, hanging down and out.
His dog tags dangled from his neck; he wasn’t all that stout.
But some had called him “Piggy”, when his tummy wiggled some,
as if he really were a dirty hog, a piece of scum.
He longed to be a thinner guy, but he lapped up the slop.
He’d plop right down before a feast, a beast who wouldn’t stop.
The bullies in his neighbourhood would treat him badly, so
it came as no surprise to most to find him flopped out low.
Eric Awesud Ble was a poet of British prose.
The Notre Dame Blaze
by Rucléaire D’ Webs
With over fifty acres of wood in its structure’s hull,
the Notre Dame Cathedral in Paree burned wi—ld—ly…
on Monday after the Palm Sunday after six o’clock,
the roof in rubble, spi-re fa/ /en, mished-mashed ashes clogged.
Though Kenneth Clark did not know what ci-vi-li-za-tion was,
still he thought he could recognize it standing on the Seine.
If he were now alive and standing there, what would he think?
While looking at the cinders on the square, would his heart sink?
If one was waiting for an age’s sign, would this be it:
neglect, poor fire precautions, restoration accident?
Rucléaire D’ Webs is a poet of France and the Internet. Kenneth Clark (1903-1983) was a British art historian.
The Twin Towers
by Arcideb Usewel
I still remember vividly, as if it were
just some short time ago, those high Twin Towers, grand
against the gorgeous city, stalwart and secure.
They were so beautiful, upright above the land.
They were so sleek and tall, and fit so perfectly
beside the other buildings, life-filled, lofty and
pulsating. But, alas, o, such was not to be
for long; for vicious men had plotted their demise.
They longed to knock them down with wild insanity.
They longed to tear them from their heights with harsh surprise.
How long will I remember them, there at that perch,
forever shoved from morning’s rosy-coloured skies?
Arcideb Usewel is a poet of architecture. The lead architect Minoru Yamasaki designed the Twin Towers for peace and strength.
Alfred Dorn (1929-2014)
by Dic Asburee Wel
He dwelled among the trodden ways
in Flushing, Queens, New York,
a man who liked a thoughtful phrase,
the poet Alfred Dorn.
A fresh carnation he would wear
in dapper, crisp lapel;
his walking stick would have to bear
his six-foot-two uphill.
He lived unknown, and few would know
the poetry he wrote;
and now he’s in his grave, brave soul,
there are words one can note.
Dic Asburee Wel is a poet of New York City.
Portrait of an Unknown Poet
by Bic Uwel, “Erased”
He sits back in a stream-lined chair and rocks
a little up and down and back and forth,
propelled by feet upon the floor, in socks,
his front is facing south, his back points north.
No one will stop to visit him today.
No one will see him writing down these words.
No one will wonder what he has to say.
Outside they fly about—the busy birds.
His shoulders press against the chair’s broad back.
His elbows rest upon its wooden arms.
His eyes, deep set within his head, are black.
Outside the brightness of the daylight charms.
He writes these sentences upon himself,
while looking at some books upon a shelf.
The Unknown Poet
by Bic Uwel, “Erased”
He was born without an identity.
He was nobody in particular.
None knew he was a living entity.
All thought that he was inarticulate.
It wasn’t that he didn’t quite exist,
or that he really was invisible;
but if he passed away he’d not be missed.
That any cared for him was risible.
There were so many people on the earth.
What was another one among the crowds?
No one was looking for another birth.
No one expected him among the shrouds.
His ID theft had happened long ago,
before he even had a chance to show.
Bic Uwel, “Erased” is an unknown poet, who is so unimportant no one knows he exists. Influenced by the Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa, and British writers, like Marlowe, DeFoe, and Ian Fleming, he grew up reading comic books, like Green Lantern, Superman, and Batman. He has the eerie feeling that Somebody Upstairs has deleted his file.
The HVAC Worker
He was up in the attic, working on the HVAC there,
beneath the wooden frame and tubing hanging in the air.
He squatted down to do the servicing (Was he on spec?),
investigating the equipment for a thorough check.
He got a little dirty and his body sweated too;
it glistened in the light-bulb light, a hot and hairy view.
He shifted in his black boots back and forth a little bit,
to analyze the reams of data that he had to get.
He felt like he was working hard and earned what he’d receive;
beside the planks, he left an oily rag, a bright-green weave.
A Portrait of Bruc Diesel Awe
by Des Werkebauli
He was an auto shop mechanic with a vacant stare.
His eyes were gray, his lips were chapped, his face was drawn
to tasks. His skin was dark, dirt-brown and rough. His hair
was black, greased back, and like a wire brush. His brawn
was stream-lined, like the vehicles he worked. He wore
a trim, tight uniform, with DIESEL printed on.
His day-old beard was like sandpaper, dark, hard-core.
He had a tool box he used to get each job done,
to do his rubbing, screwing, hammering, and more.
Though serious, he looked like he could have some fun.
One probably could find someone somewhere in there
behind his uniform, perhaps out in the sun.
Des Werkebauli is a poet of the working man and woman.
A Panoply to Bide
R. Lee Ubicwedas
If one remembers life is an adventure all the time,
from birth to death, from emptiness to moments of sublime,
then one can find such interest in things to keep one’s mind
well occupied discovering a panoply to bide.
As long as one’s alive, there is no end to novel things,
and ever-changing thoughts reveal new imaginings.
One can forego emotion that detract from life’s fresh blooms,
though, like a car, from time to time, one needs more gas, and lubes.
How strange it is when then we come to each brand new surprise,
that never was expected, but before us ever lies.
R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of the universal.
by “Lice Brews” Ueda
The winter withered
with the arrival of spring.
Where was the sorrow?
“Lice Brews” Ueda is a haikuist.