by “Eired Clues” Abe
In the grassy lawn,
a little frog is jumping
near the loud mower.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The maintenance man
begins his daily labours
in the morning light,
dew sparkling on green grass blades,
clogging the lawn mower’s blade.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a New Millennial poet, marrying modern technology with classic Japanese forms albeit in English.
by “Lice Brews” Ueda
In darkening dusk
it looks like a clump of grass—
No—it is a toad.
“Lice Brews” Ueda is a haikuist of nature’s small creatures and plants.
by W. “Cured Eel” Sabi
Godzilla first appeared in cinemas some years ago;
it was in 1954 when it stormed Tokyo.
Then Gojira—gorilla-whale—that giant lizard thing—
thrashed power lines and cars, above the people cowering.
Ishirō Honda first depicted his huge dinosaur,
a fearsome monster, deadly, violent and nuclear;
r-a-d-i-o-a-c-t-i-v-e, fifty meters tall, and r-a-m-p-a-g-i-n-g;
it was the dread of all that was so harsh and damaging.
Though Honda’s film was primitive compared to modern film;
of those that followed his—his is the best Godzilla still.
W. “Cured Eel” Sabi is a poet of Japan. Ishirō Honda (1911-1993) was a Postmodernist director known for his kaiju films.
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
Exploring space requires rockets, dedication, and
enthusiasm for resolving problems near at hand.
The computations for successful launches are complex.
They are, in fact, as difficult as anything in sex.
How can you get equipment up and running perfectly?
How can you keep your energy up there, and fervently?
There are so many situations rising on the spot,
how can you keep cool, level-headed, when things get so hot?
But, o, if you can do these things and many more to boot,
then space-time exploration won’t be dreadful when you do ‘t.
I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the cosmos.
A Black Hole
by Ira “Dweeb” Scule
A black hole is a place in spacetime where light can’t get out,
because the gravity’s so strong and matter squeezed so taut.
This can occur when stars collapse and have too great a mass,
as in a gamma-ray burst or a hypernova blast.
The no-hair “theorem” postulates but three known classic parts:
its angular momentum, mass, and its electric charge.
Beyond yon blonde event horizon nothing can escape;
it is a geometric form of universal rape.
Does one exist within the centers of all galaxies,
relentlessly uprooting in anencephalic seas?
by Ira “Dweeb” Scule
Although it is the second most abundant element
found in the universe, on Earth it’s rare, aye, helium.
Most is derived, along with natural gas, underground,
so no one can predict where next deposits will be found.
It’s odourless, inert, non-toxic, colourless as fizz,
which also makes it difficult to find out where it is.
It’s used in cryogenics at the LHC of CERN,
in MRIs and NMRs, and found too in balloons.
It cooled Apollo’s liquid oxygen and hydrogen
for trips to find out what it’s like to be upon the moon.
But on the Earth it is a daunting task to find its place,
because it is so light it leaks away out into space.
by Ira “Dweeb” Scule
The particle-waves that comprise us can exist—here’s why:
they are not free but are bound in and held together by
the inter-inner-particle-wave force, and would fly
out otherwise in lines if not for being in a bind.
Yet they are definitely moving, these wave-particles,
for they indeed are genuine, the re-al articles.
They’ve found a way of orbitting around each other that
makes it appear that you are still a crazed Jehosephat!
O, woe is me, o, glory be, when they go off their course
and fly off to another mass-accelerated force.
Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of the sciences.
by Euclidrew Base
The case of curves, which may be affine and projective, is
an instance of the anabelian hypothesis.
Suppose that one is given hyperbolic curve called C,
the complement of n points in a curve of genus g,
that’s taken to be smoothe and also irreducible,
defined across a field K (a golden goose, Abel?),
finitely generated over its prime field’s plot,
such that 2 – 2g – n is less than naught,
conjectured by sagenious Alexander Grothendieck,
profinite group G will determine C itself unique.
by Euclidrew Base
He felt a problem was not solved until viewed properly,
the general perspective, where then solved ef-fort-less-ly,
as if immersing a nut in some liquid softening,
whose shell becomes more ripe and flexible, then opening.
Once, as an undergrad, his teacher told him one Lebesgue
had solved the last outstanding problems math would ever peg;
but then he found a version of it much more general
of that same mathematic structure, Lebesgue’s Integral.
When studying his PhD, advising was L. Schwartz,
who handed him a paper that contained his recent work.
It had a list of fourteen problems that remained unsolved,
but after just a few months he had figured out them all.
He then moved on, creating the new notion of a scheme,
with polynomial equations, mod-p varied streams,
considering a sheaf of functions, possibly a swarm,
with vector bundles, tangent vectors, differential forms.
He was intrigued by problems that suggested larger molds,
in order to discover then where were the problems’ homes.
Specific problems didn’t pique his interest so much,
as building sweeping visions of what math could be and clutch.
Deemphasizing objects he then focused on the maps,
which led directly to the theory that is known as stacks.
His view of category theory helped him see anew,
connecting mathematic fields with a fluid glue.
But at the end, it seems he left those mathematic realms,
and suffered psychological collapse that overwhelms.
He tried to live on dandelions, but was saved from these
by villagers he lived nearby beneath the Pyrenees.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics and mathematicians. Alexander Grothendieck (1928-2014), a leading figure in modern algebraic geometry, and Laurent Schwartz (1915-2002) were French mathematicians of the 20th century. Sagenius is a three-syllable neologism of Beau Lecsi Werd, combing sage and genius.
Sree Leci Budwa
The rich can make fine temples, but what can the poor man do?
Perhaps he could be thinking with a diff’rent point of view.
His legs, like pillars, rising up to reach the pure divine,
as such his body then will be a grand, imposing shrine.
His head could be a gorgeous, shining cupola of gold,
on which the sun shines whether he is young or he is old.
His arms could be his building’s wings that stretch out far and wide,
magnificence in splendor there until he takes a stride.
O, listen, Lord of Meeting Rivers, standing things will fall,
but moving things shall ever stay, unlike the Taj Majal.
Sree Leci Budwa is a poet of India. Vachana, “that which is said”, is a rhythmic writing in Kannada; this poem draws from one of those.
by Sec Wer El Dubai
I saw Him in the corner of the building—Asharej.
His Will appeared inside the operator input dredge.
It seemed His was the only godly presence in that joint.
He was the drive controller at the static pressure point.
I heard the hum of His fan motor going round and round.
He was the air supply and flow, a bony spirit browned.
His hair as black as any shiny cell phone’s sleek background.
I tried to figure out the duct work of His system’s pound.
O, Asherej, where are you going in this burning heat?
O, El Dubai, why are you living in His turning seat?
Sec Wer El Dubai is a poet fascinated by the whirl of Middle-Eastern money and fabulous construction. He loves the beauty of mathematics, the power of mechanics, and the spirit of technology. His intimate friends include Saudi Becrewel, Cid Wa’eeb El Sur, and “Scribe” El Uwade. Archimedes of Syracuse and Eratoshenes of Cyrene are among his favourite historical personages.
A Bloody Massacre
&n nbsp;bsp; by “Scribe” El Uwade
Protests began December when bread prices rose sky-high;
protests were crushed and curfews rushed; the cash-strapped banks ran dry.
Then struck the doctors, lawyers, pharmacists, and journalists;
the demonstrations grew, a woman’s death a catalyst.
Bashir would not step down; three dozen people had been killed;
but through those April days the Sudanese would not be stilled.
And then the TMC removed cru’l Omar al-Bashir,
but Fattah al-Burhan says it may take more than a year;
the TMC will oversee this cautious period;
they won’t cede power to protesters, though a myriad.
Coup leaders gathered power; demonstrations still occur;
and this week dozens were shot down—”a bloody massacre”.
“Scribe” El Uwade is a poet of northeast Africa. The TMC is the Transitional Military Council. The SPA, the Sudanese Professionals’ Association called this latest action “a bloody massacre.”
I Have Not Made a Monument
by Aedile Cwerbus
I have not made a monument more durable than bronze,
or higher than the pyramids, or lovelier than swans.
I have no great memorial as powerful as rain,
as strong as wind, as lasting as time’s ever-destined reign.
And I shall wholly die, no part of me escape death’s bite;
like vestal virgin and high priest, I shall succumb to night.
Without renown, I’ll dwell where Alph the sacred river ran,
in twilight’s desert kingdoms, poorer than the poorest man.
I did not bring Greek rhythms to our tongue, Melpomene,
so likewise toss those dry-leafed laurels you have offered me.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet who still contemplates ancient Rome; here Horace is in his sights.
by Luc Ebrewe Dias
“…ab Amerigo Inventore…”
Amerigo Vespucci’s voyage under Portugal
that s-a-i-l-e-d from Lisboa was for him, o, fortunate.
His expedition traveled down the long coast of Brazil,
concluding that discovered lands weren’t Asian island spill,
but actu’lly a brand new world of gorgeous, stunning shores,
somewhere in there, Chuí to Oiapoque, on he bore.
He made a post to trade brazilwood, tag for this new tract,
exactly on the Tropic Line of Capricorn, in fact.
But when bold Martin Waldseemüller printed out his name
upon his pamphlet’s pages, then he came into his fame.
Luc Ebrewe Dias is a poet of Brazil. Explorer Amerigo Vespucci (1454-1512) became famous, because of the map of Martin Waldseemüller (1470-1520), who was the first to label it America.
by W. S. “Eel” Bericuda
The sunshine was so glorious, the air so fresh and clean,
they went out to the new mown lawn, ah, golden-light and green.
In sandals on the lovely grass, they moved about the place,
as though they were in love with life, but never face to face.
One threw his body to the sky and leaped up to the Sun,
and round about, he whirled as if he there was having fun.
Another lounged, relaxed, content to be just where he was,
as if he held the sweetest peace within his hands and arms.
And yet, because the day was warm, the heat too hot to take,
they turned enjoyment up too high, and burned, cooked in a bake.
W. S. “Eel” Bericuda is a poet of the Sunshine state.
Boston Women’s Memorial
by Cadwel E. Bruise
The artist Meredith Bergman made life-sized figures in
the park, in bronze and granite, three renowned Bostonians.
The statues at the Commonwealth Mall Avenue portray
three women who were relatively famous in the day.
Around each woman’s statue one will find a pedestal,
but not one that she stands upon, yet there they’re steadied all.
The poet Phillis Wheatley’s leaning on her cubic form,
and on the other side the plinth’s a desk for Lucy Stone,
while in between the two is standing Abigail Adams,
who told her husband, making laws, “remember the ladies”.
Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of New England.