From Tong’an, Looking at the Vast Blue Sea
by Wu “Sacred Bee” Li
Upon the East face of Jieshi Mountain, I, Cao Cao,
am gazing at the vast blue sea—the waters dancing now,
so gently down below this mountain island towering,
lush, thick with growing trees, a hundred grasses flowering.
I hear the rushing autumn soughs the big waves rise up to,
within the splendid Milky Way, from which I see this view.
As if from deep within they come, the paths of sun and moon ,
so beautiful and new, from which I too have come, a boon.
O, I am very lucky, very lucky, Cao Song’s son,
to be here now and singing, singing this my wish, my song.
Wu “Sacred Bee” Li is a poet of ancient China. Cao Cao (155-220) was a Chinese warlord and poet.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Above frog voices,
a jet’s widening contrail
grows white in moonlight.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet. His favourite haiku is that of Matsuo Basho (1644-1694), “Old Pond”:
fu-ru (old) i-ke (pond) ya,
ka-wa-zu (frog) to-bi-ko-mu (jumping in).
mi-zu (water) no o-to (sound).
A Fireball upon the Sheremetyevo Tarmac
by Air Weelbed Suc
A Russian Sukhoi Aeroflot crash-landed Sunday eve,
just 27 minutes after it took off to leave:
survivors said that lightning struck the rising superjet;
some said traf-fic control cared little for WX;
some said the pilot erred not burning off more of the fuel,
he should have dumped it over Moscow underneath his view;
four pancake hits, smashed landing gear, the fuselage ablaze,
some wondered at the timing of the lagging fire brigade;
some said the safety of the plane was not what it could be;
communications hampered—pan-pan-pan emergency;
some passengers brought luggage, others screaming in the flames;
of 78, only 37 could escape.
Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of aircraft and flight.
Blogger Alexander Gorbunov
by Alecsei Burdew
What’s happening is terrible, he says about his land;
hypocrisy is rampant, he types with his crooked hand.
The man behind the StalinGulag blog is wheel-chair bound;
he’s diagnosed with spinal muscular atrophic’s hound;
yet he refuses any medications for himself,
because he says that his condition is incurable.
He does not want to turn his life into a silly fight.
He’s sure he’ll lose this battle; that’s his fate; there is no flight.
One of Vladimir Putin’s critics; he won’t be put off;
injustice makes him angry—Alexander Gorbunov.
Alecsei Burdew is a poet of Russia.
by Ludiew E. Sarceb
Symborska, she, was born in 1923 in Bnin,
in what’s now known as Kórnik, but she moved, Wisława moved,
moved off forever, off to Krakow, 1931,
one single Polish city, till she died in 2012.
Twelve years, and it was War—in Krakow. After every war,
or battle, someone has to push the rubble to the side—
sighed—corpse-filled wagons have to pass, and so much more, and so…
Socialist Realism came to 1945.
I’ve been in search of words to help explain the waning pain.
A new wind blows. She married Adam Włodek for awhile.
I’ll sign that letter that condemns the Polish priests—that bane,
a new show trial to satisfy the Communistic file.
I’ll leave the Communists. That was in 1966. But still,
till in the 1990s, she could write a poem that
attacked nonCommunistic government, for good or ill,
ill-timed perhaps before the Nobel Prize in ’96.
Sixteen more years to live, to write, about the quietness,
essential little things that are the elements of life.
Life flies beyond the pale of paradise and pieties.
Ease of her trade allows the acrobat to leave the strife.
Ludiew E. Sarceb is a poet of Poland. Wisława Symborska (1923-2012) was a Polish poet. She won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1996.
by E. Birdcaws Eule
The nightingale is attracted to Berlin’s parklands.
It sings in places, like Tiergarten, in the darkened strands.
In spring it sings up north just having come from Africa,
and sings full pitch its battle rap, its rat-a-tat-tat-tat.
For six weeks it attempts to get a partner and a mate
with its delightful repertoire, it techno-trilling spate.
It breeds in European brush, its tunes a rushing thrill,
melodic, powerful, determined, with energetic will.
Die ganze Nacht gesungen; o, through all the night it sings;
die Rosen aufgesprungen; with the roses opening.
E. Birdcaws Eule is a poet of birds. “Eule” in German is “owl”. The German phrases come from a poem on the nightingale by Realist German poet Theodore Storm (1817-1888), and are approximately translated at the ends of the lines in which they appear.
by Esca Webuilder
“Let us now praise freedom’s twilight…”
We live without the feeling of the country under us.
We cannot hear ourselves; nobody listens to our pulse.
But when there is a chance for words, the talk turns to High Tech.
Immense G-Mafia is mentioned merely for a sec.
Its thick long tentacles extend, like thick gigantic sucks;
commands drop from its giant lips like lead weights fall through muck.
Its cockroach-wire whiskers leer into our very lives;
Its gleaming boot-tops shine above the busy, buzzing hives.
Around it gather thin-necked men, and empty-headed hens,
who follow it obediently, speaking tongues in tens.
Some wine, some mewl, some whistle too, some play upon their fears,
until they hear it poking, banging, booming in their ears.
Its edicts fly, like horseshoes galloping across the land;
some get them in the groin, the head, the eyes, or in the hand.
Its executions roll along, raspberry and rosette;
It’s filled with Moloch’s Arms and Chest, a steely-willed Ossete.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet.
Samuel Eilenberg (1913-1998)
by Euclidrew Base
A category theory founder, Samuel Eilenberg,
dove deep into its waters with Mac Lane, an iceberg’s depth.
Post World War Two, he roamed its territories various,
and in topology as well, as other areas.
He coined new terms, like functor, natural isomorphism,
and category, as he moved through mathematic realms.
By using category theory and homology,
he unified and revolutionized topology.
He made a method for proof called th’ Eilenberg telescope,
known as the Mazur swindle in knot-sums and manifolds.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematicians and mathematics. Sanders Mac Lane (1909-2005) was an American mathematician, one of whose accomplishments with cofounding category theory. Barry Mazur is a contemporary American mathematician.
The Height of American Drama
by Cause Bewilder
Born in Columbus, Mississippi of neurotic mom,
Edwina, and an alcoholic dad, Cornelius,
he wrote around the time of World War II’s maelstrom,
with dramatists like Miller, Wilder, and Eugene O’Neill—
and brought his prose poetic dramas to America,
including Streetcar Named Desire, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,
The Night of the Iguana, Suddenly Last Summer, and
The Glass Menagerie, Sweet Bird of Youth, A Rose Tattoo,
Tennessee Williams fell through hell’s nightmarish realms and mess,
like Orpheus descending through Shakespearean abyss.
Cause Bewilder is a poet and literary of the South. Arthur Miller (1915-2005), Thornton Wilder (1897-1975), Eugene O’Neill (1888-1953), and Tennessee Williams (1911-1983) were American Modernist and Postmodernist dramatists.
A NonMedieval ‘Coffee Cup’
by Cawb Edius Reel
“I’m not sure why a fantasy world can’t have a cup.”
On Tuesday HBO confirmed it di-gi-tal-ly had
removed the nonMedieval “coffee cup”—that was so bad.
It had appeared in “Episode 4: The Last of the Starks”.
Such an occurrence had offended thousands. That was dark.
They had to ban the off-white cup for continuity,
so many people cared about the incongruity;
but in the process Starbuck’s got some free publicity,
although the cup was not from Starbuck’s. What complicity.
So much ado about a cup beside the fake, gray stones,
a tea or lotte on a table in the Game of Thrones.
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of film.
Kentucky Derby 2019
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
“The best horse should have one.”
—Ecwis Lua Breed
The horse race held in Louisville, Kentucky, every May
is the renowned Kentucky Derby, a Grade 1 stakes race,
for three-year thoroughbreds that run ten furlongs on the dirt
at Churchill Downs, since 1875 at its start.
It is the first leg of the Triple Crown and followed by
the Preakness and the Belmont under later warmer skies.
Amongst mint juleps and burgoo, spectators watch the lot
or the large jumbotron installed for the up-close long shot.
But controversy came this year with Country House in stride,
the winner—Maximum Security disqualified.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of sport.
When the Tornado Hit
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
He latched on to the dull, tall pole, and held with all his life.
The wind passed fast, but wildly. Behind him all was strife.
His legs were planted firmly on the hard, gray, cement floor,
so he’d be able to endure the nasty blast full bore.
His face was comic, like a joke was being played on him;
but one observed he was uncomforted despite his vim.
His drab, white tee-shirt clung tight to his torso and his arms.
He felt as if he were upon a rocket-trip to Mars.
He bent down at his waist, taut up against th’ incoming kick.
So glad when the tornado left, but presently just sick.
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of Texas. He once remained in a windowless Panda Express restroom, while tornado sirens blared outside.
by Erisbawdle Cue
Sweet happiness does not just happen, no;
one must decide to be content each day;
a cheerful disposition one must hoe,
t’ enjoy the garden pleasure can display;
nor is sweet happiness light-headedness,
although euphoria bring one delight;
it is the heart that holds true happiness
and brings sweet peace when one lies down at night.
So, when one greets the obstacles of life
that are so many and so onerous,
since living is itself a kind of strife,
a striving rife with woes as well as bliss,
then one must labour all the harder to
find happiness in this mad pay-per-view.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy.