A Magic Square in the Manner of Albrecht Dürer
by Albrec Uwe Eids
Albrec Uwe Eids is a poet of the Northern Renaissance. Albrecht Dürer (1471-1528) was a German Renaissance painter and printmaker.
by E “Blue Screw” Dai
Beside white chickens,
Dakotsu Iida was
in a distant photo from
the 20th century.
E “Blue Screw” Dai is a surreal poet. William Carlos Williams (1883-1863) was a Modernist American poet. Dakotsu Iida (1885-1962) was a Japanese Modernist haiku poet and proset.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
In his second year,
the infant, tentatively,
walks about the rooms.
Spring’s newborn calf though wobbly
leaps onto the grassy field.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
A window pane’s crack
extends…across the clear glass…
in a sine curve track.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a haiku writer of temporary contemporary scenes.
Within the Philippines, the onions, red and white, cost more
per kilogram than everyday meats, chicken, beef, or pork.
Supply chain snags, war in Ukraine, and weather’s fierce events
have caused the situation, maybe some crime syndicates.
To Roma and Back in Malayalam
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose upon the rich-brown couch.
He felt like as a wealthy maharaja. Holy cow.
He spread his legs out to each side, he raised his torso high.
He longed to reach a new nirvana, horizontal sky.
He spead his shoulders in the golden light, hands at his hips.
He opened up his inner eye, while moistening his lips.
He thought of trips of Paremmakkal Thoma Kathanar,
from India to Portugal..o, could he go as far?
He loved new knowledge pouring in and pumping up his might.
O, Lord, your will be done on high in heavenly delight.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of India. Paremmakkal Thoma Kathanar (1736-1799) was an 18th century traveloguist, who wrote in Malayalam.
In order to save energy in Pakistan, the malls
are to be closed by 20:30. Will Paks heed the calls?
In This Harsh Iliad
by Ercules Edibwa
It isn’t all that easy standing up to whip and scourge,
the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune’s demiurge.
One must stand tall, o, even then, when one would rather not,
to face the bracing baseness of a knightly Lancelot.
It is so hard at times, when one would rather be at peace,
to get off of one’s butt, when all one wants to do is cease.
One must be brave, though, for what other choice does one soul have,
when all around one is beset by vac and roiling vat?
It is so difficult. Is there no balm in Gilead?
O, can one not find any calm in this harsh “Iliad?”
Stuck in the Dorms
by Ercules Edibwa
He was so phat, he had to fast and work out at the gym.
Yes, exercise would help him realize a better him.
O, intermittent fasting, too, would spark autophagy,
as well as coffee cup… Ah bring it up to lips, ho, gee.
It was important to keep moving all around the clock,
to suck the marrow from tomorrow, like a feasting hawk.
O, he was phat, but not a frat who sat upon Greek row;
instead he was stuck in the dorms, away from form and flow.
So could he reach the Parthenon—that temple in the sky
that rose up through the azure blue ideally on high.
Ercules Edibwa is a poet of ancient Greece. Lancelot, perhaps euhemerised, was first historic’lly recorded by Chrétien de Troyes (c. 1130 – c. 1190), the late 12th century French Medieval trouvère of chivalric romances. Gilead is a “rocky heap first witnessed” in Genesis, when Jacob fled across the River Jordan, the “Iliad” is an epic of the 8th century BC by the poet Homer, et. al., and the Parthenon, a building in Athens of the 5th century BC.
A Post Proclus Hymn
by Esiad L. Werecub
He rose up from his stripped-down couch. He lifted up his chest.
He pointed t’ward the shining light, and took a deep, full breath.
He felt the nip of winter all around his torso’s form.
He cupped his arms close to his hairy breast to fe-el warm.
He saw a Janus facing back and forth along the wall
of history’s mysterious and everending hall.
Yet he went forward, for he did not have a choice not to.
He saw a troubled sign ahead—it was a W.
What did it mean—those bending palms that rose up to the sky?
Why was this demi-god or king presented to the eye?
Forefather Janus, o, imperishable Zeus on high,
lend me a hand to guide me to the pathways of true light.
Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of heptameter delights. Proclus (412 – 485) a Greek, NeoPlatonist philosopher.
The Exiled Ovid
by Aedile Cwerbus
Hardly anyone here remembers the exiled Ovid,
but his name does live on without him in Rome and elsewhere
subject to the stars that never touch eternity’s sea.
I also am living in the midst of barbarism.
We are all wild, whether Roman, German or British.
What then is not worthy of our talent and dignity,
so long as a warm wind still blows and on flows the Danube
from its source in the Black Forest down to the Black Sea?
But when sad winter shows its squallid, protuberant face,
and the earth is marbled over with white and frosty facts,
and the cold north winds blow down horribly from the Arctic,
then people everywhere are oppressed by its premises.
Neither jacket nor jackboot protects from the harsh coldness,
nor can sun or rain undo its perpetual hardness.
Then, when a terrible thing happens, another occurs,
and it is hard to live, let alone write, in such a place.
And the force of the north wind is so powerful it knocks
down tall towers, and tears roofs off of various structures.
Pelts and pant suits protect people from the bracing coldness;
the face is the only uncovered part of the body;
the hair moved slightly sounds of hanging, clanging icycles,
while the beard in light shines, encased in white, crusty crystals.
Wine, left out, takes the shape of the vessel it has been in,
and people don’t drink it, but are given pieces of it.
Why speak of such, the concrete-like, frigid, frozen rivers,
or from the lake, how brittle clumps are broken for water?
The Danube itself, which is no narrower than the Nile,
mixes with the vast sea after many mouths have fed it,
and its blue waves harden into ice upon the surface,
congealing on the top of the wide, serpentine waters;
where before ships had gone, now feet travel over the waves,
and horses’ hooves leave curved grooves in its frigid concrete slab;
and on its new perquisite bridges, waves flowing under,
the barbarous formations lead their ox-driven wagons.
I won’t be believed, but since there aren’t prizes for lying,
no one ought not to have faith in one man’s testimony;
but I have seen bridges of a glacier’s consistency,
slippery on top, holding the sea motionless below.
Seeing can’t satisfy one, but the hard covered sea waves
under our feet did not wet us as we trod over them.
If Leander himself had fretted over this sea’s sight,
his anguishing, criminal death could hardly have occurred.
In such weather, even the arced dolphins cannot rise up
to the air with their usual flair; winter hems them in.
And although the cold north wind flaps its wide, insolent wings,
not a wave will be seen despite its wild fluctuations;
and ships shut in by marbled frosts, shall be stuck in the sea,
for oars can’t find or cleave the rigid, frigid waters.
We have seen in the ice held fast fish stuck at a standstill,
but even then some of them stuck there flopped about alive.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Rome. The above draws from the Roman poet Ovid (43 BC – 17 AD).
Th’ Hungarian ambassador called Putin a “small man”,
“holdover from a time the world has tried to move beyond.”
The Russian embassy in Hungary replied and called
it an abuse of “basic diplomatic protocol.”
He Met Them
Erec Buls Ewida
He met them on a journey he was taking long ago;
two individuals named Chad and Jason, on that road.
It wasn’t like the clash of Robin Hood and Little John,
but rather more like some rapport of mental lexicon;
nor was it like the “óbscure sylvan” meeting of the beasts,
for they were friendlier, steeped in the seep of poetry.
It wasn’t like the meeting of the Magi from the East;
they did not carry riches that they wanted to bequeath;
nor was it like when Niels Bohr met Werner Heisenberg,
nor the young Charles Dickens, when he met the youthful Poe.
O, no, it was not anything like all those meetings, yet…
it was a meeting that he wouldn’t, nor could he forget.
Erec Buls Ewida is a poet of the Middle Ages.
by Wilude Scabere
It was so strange to see that giant bean stalk rise aloft,
as it jacked up to ever elevated level flot.
Jack was impressed to find how far the plant had gone above,
beyond where he expected it would be the apex of.
It rose, yes, past the climb and cast, the height where he could see,
as if it swelled out of the frame of continuity.
He found a castle with some hassle, and a giant boor.
Fee-fi-fo-fum, o, British man, he heard the rude brute roar.
But there it was—a golden goose—he grabbed it by its neck,
and fled from that dark tower—Childe Rowland—skylit ken.
While Reading Text of Thomas Moore
by Wilude Scabere
While reading text of Thomas Moore from his “Utopia”,
he fell asleep into a dreamlike cornucopia.
There were so many in this place besides his wife and kids,
but that was in the main just who he was, and had been, with.
Of all the many things he saw, none was as awesome as
his son reciting text of Jonathan Swift’s “Gulliver’s”;
for he went on and one; he didn’t pause, but kept it up;
and many stopped to listen; and they didn’t interrupt.
He finally took his son’s hand and guided him away
down halls, through offices and on, out of that dreamlike stay.
Wilude Scabere is a poet of British literature. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “flot” has a lot of meanings, “childe” is a noble youth. Th’ Aarne-Thompson index is a helpful folklore tool. In addition to folk tales, this tennos draws from British playwright William Shakespeare (1564-1616). Thomas More (1478-1535) was a British Renaissance Latin writer and Jonathan Swift (1667-1745) was a British Neoclassical author.
by SubCIA Weedler
Especi’lly in his brilliant run of tales before the War,
regarding ordinary souls caught up within some roar,
in half a dozen books, he cast his varied characters
cum refugees, and engineers, or crass adventuers.
As well as Symons, Deighton, Le Carré and Graham Greene,
marquee spy writers, Fleming, Furst, and Forsyth in that scene,
bespoke his talent in that genre that he wrote within,
like as the way he lit for them a source they could draw on,
extending the spy thriller from gentile drawing room,
replenishing its scenery with dark, back streets of doom.
Sub CIA Weedler is a poet of espionage: Graham Greene (1904-1991), Ian Fleming (1908-1964), Eric Ambler (1909-1998), Julian Symons (1912-1994), Len Deighton (1929-20—), John le Carré (1931-2020), and Frederick Forsyth (1938-20—) British writers of espionage, etc., as well as, contemperory American novelist Alan Furst (1941-20—).
Brazilian protests were damned by the gang in Mexico,
the democratic bosses, Biden, AMLO, and Trudeau.
The Blue Jay
by E “Birdcaws” Eule
He likes a giant oak tree spreading in an azure sky.
He breaks a piece of it whenever he begins to fly.
He leaps upon the air with ease, and flies light as a breeze.
He feeds on seeds and nuts, like acorns, gleaning food from trees.
He is a wonder to behold when he breaks from day’s pause.
It is a joy to hear his quiet jeering voice’s jaws.
He loves his residential neighbourhood, when most are gone,
and hangs about year-round, when others fly away at dawn.
He is a kingly sort of gentleman with shield and crest;
the blue jay is a stately bird, who likes an open nest.
E “Birdcaws” Eule is a poet of birds.
Joe Biden said he was surprised at the discovery
of documents once classified, and their recovery.
Should equal justice be applied, then, for this docudump,
and special counsel be appointed, as it was for Trump?
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
Hebb’s Law suggests when neurons fire together they wire too,
plasticity-dependent and spike-timing kept in view.
Temporal precedence is vital for this all to work,
synaptic strength within brain cells, for leaning to occur.
Creating engrams is important, biochemic change,
associations actively perk up and rearrange.
When one cell frequently assists another another one to fire,
the axon of the first makes knobs, enlarged, or charged and rife,
in contact with the soma of the second cell, it forms
creative engrams that can store some memories and more.
But all must work together for the power of the whole,
the body, mind, and spirit in the making of a soul.
Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of the brain. Donald Hebb (1904-1985) was a Canadian psychologist.
Net Zero will lead to the end of modern civil life,
so says, Manheimer, plasma physicist and science guy.
William M. Manheimer is a contemporary atomic physicist, known for work in electromagnetic radiation, ionization, quantum electrodynamics, heat flux, and plasma.
by Esca Webuilder
He sat and sipped his MCT-filled coffee cup, and watched
the World go by from his train seat in which he was ensconced.
The winter trees, with twirling leaves, swirled all about the sky,
them whirling in and out of focus from the cerning eye,
like as they ran along the tracks attempting to keep up;
but which they could not do. He sat and sipped his coffee cup.
He saw a pond, a gleaming, glimmering, a dimming glow,
beneath the wheels turning round at some degrees below,
attention grabbed and freezed in time, it shrinking to its core,
a flock of ducks there floating gladly near its reedy shore.
He was so glad that he was warm, his town-bound turning-round;
and took another sip of coffee; it was cooling down.
At the Desk
by Esca Webuilder
He sat up at the shiny, rich-brown, smooth, vaneered-top desk,
the golden, winter sunlight falling on th’ unasked-for sked.
Ho, it was blinding, as it hit his face, and flimsy limbs,
but nonetheless he was content with his home-office SIMS.
So he could type his es and is as well as ps and pis,
at times he had to put his hand up, covering his eyes.
He saw the tree-crotch bird-nest through the window to his left,
though all the scissortails and most all the leaves had fled.
He sat there taking in D vitamins, which pumped him up;
at least that’s what he thought, though he could not know what was what;
for life was far too complicated in its microrealms,
and macrorealistic’lly it often overwhelms.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet.