At Cosmic Noon
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
Are black-holes thé most massive objects in the Universe?
Did they occur at cosmic noon? Are they a cosmic curse?
Can they reach to a billion solar masses. Is it true?
And what can all this mean for us to contemplate this view?
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet in the Universe. Cosmic noon is around 11,000,000,000 years ago.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Two morning doves pause
on the gray, garden-lined rocks
near two cement ducks.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
He interjects, ‘Gee’,
when he sees caps, ‘OMG’:
license plate on jeep
by “Wired Clues” Abe
He carefully pulled
a plastic grocery sack
from the bare rosebush.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet combining tradition Japanese haiku standards with Modernist and PostModernist techniques, following on the work of writers, such as Nakamura Kusatao (1901-1983), Kaneko Tôta (1919-2018), Nagata Kôi (1900-1997), Nakamura Sonoko (1911-2001), and Akao Tôshi (1925-1981).
The heat in India, in February, has just reached
its highest av’rage temp’rature within a century.
It was the hottest ever since their records were begun
at 29.5 degrees in Celsius, Nineteen-O-One.
The March Goes On
by War di Belecuse
“Нас ли сжалит пули оса?”
—Vladimir Mayakovsky, “Our March”
Although that war is gone, the march goes on.
Another one has come to take its place.
And so it goes. New foes do come upon
old woes, the story of the human race.
Must this be so? Can peace not ever stay?
Is it original to sin? Is it
impossible to win? From day to day,
new victories appear to make it stick.
But then it breaks the halt. On goes the march:
step after step, arm swing after arm swing,
down paved road, over bridge and under arch,
all part of a continual army.
New battles start as soon as old ones end;
heads see, hands reach, hearts beat, and legs extend;
taut shoulders rock, elbows unlock, knees bend.
War di Belecuse is a poet of war. The quote attached to this English sonnet was by Vladimir Mayakovsky (1893-1930), who was a Modernist Russian poet: Can the wasp of a bullet sting us?
Nigeria’s new president is Bola Tinubu;
in many way quite similar to Joseph Biden too,
in honesty, coherence, and uncorruptible,
a warrior’s warrior, and an elderly professional.
by Edewic Belarus
On February 26th in 2023,
a Beriev A-50 was attacked near Minsk, it seems.
Drone-dropped munitions used by Belarusian saboteurs
had damaged the surveillance craft, there near the capital.
The Mainstay Airborne Early Warning & Control Aircraft
was a convenient target with its dome of fiberglass.
The Belorusian Hajun noted that the plane was worth
more than $300,000,000 in its prime and girth.
The partisans reported that they left the day before;
and now, it seems, there are more borderguards patroling more.
Edewic Belarus is a poet of Belarusia. Minsk is a city of approximately 2,000,000.
In Bottomless Night’s Sea
by Euclidrew Base
“He had come to a strange new universe, though no one cared,
the typical scenario for those who deign to dare.”
—Earl W. Sidecube
At Târgu-Mureș he was born as Farkas Bolyai,
on February 9th in Seventeen-Seventy-Five.
At twelve, he left his school to tutor Simon Kemény;
both later spent five years at Cluj in college—Calvinist.
They left for Jena, where he went on long walks on his own
to think more deeply there of math, and then to Göttingen.
He studied under Abraham Kästner, as did friend Gauss,
a lifelong friend, who also felt geometry’s mag-net,
that sucked both him and his son in, in the new century,
upending Euclid’s parallel in bottomless night’s sea.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Euclid ( Abraham Kästner (1719-1800), Carl Gauss (1777-1855), Farkas Bolyai (1775-1856), and János Bolyai (1802-1860) were noted geometrers.
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
He had a thousand Roman models, Handel, Boyce and Bach,
the stern commanding officer, Baroque composers, ach!
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of central European music.
Three Sketches of a Self Portrait of Rembrandt van Rijn, 1640
by Cees Walerd Bui
There he is positioned in much the same manner
Titian painted Ariosto, or whoever
that gentleman was, in sleeves, big as a banner,
his right arm restless upon a ledge, quite clever
in suggesting a three-dimentional figure,
holding that thirty-four-year-old pose forever,
realistic, ordinary, and regular,
touched with a wealth of detail and ostentation,
seeming insignificance, but also bigger,
as if untriggered by his imagination,
his sloping hat over his sloping lips, wanner
than perhaps he’d like, and yet without evasion.
The arch at the top makes me stop and wonder if
he is leaning out of a window and looking
straight ahead at one, the viewer just under him,
as though he had recently been proclaimed new king
of the art world. Casually he takes his leave
(It’s hard to know exactly what he is doing.)
by resting his richly clothed right arm on the sill,
like Titian’s portrait Gentleman with a Blue Sleeve,
though Rembrandt seems to be more irrepressible,
like Raphael’s Baldasare Castiglione,
with a forthright gaze, confident that none dare give
his subdued color less than a glowing review.
Within an arch, he leans upon a piece of wood.
His left hand is unseen; his right is in a fist;
the dexterous is obviously drawn and good;
the sinister is hidden from this view, unmissed.
From rich attire, the man is gazing out at us
with eyes that are touched by some gladness and some wist.
This dressed man is a different kind of Atlas,
a map to the internal, powerful, bourgeois,
a satisfying sense seen of what thereat is,
perhaps, as Horace might write, overly Persian;
and yet behind those wisps of hair, there is real blood,
the jaw bone of an ass, a jowl, and rounded jaw.
Cees Walerd Bui is a poet of Dutch painting. Early Baroque artist Rembrandt van Rijn (1606-1669) was a Dutch Golden Age painter. Each part of this syllabic bilding arabesque was written one year later than the previous. Renaissance Italian painter Titian (c. 1490-1576) was a member of the Venetian school. Renaissance Italian poet Ariosto (1474-1533) was the author of the romantic epic Orlando Furioso. Renaissance Italian painter Raphael (1483-1520) was an artist of the High Renaissance. Italian Renaissance writer Baldassare Castiglione (1478-1529) is remembered for his book The Courtier. Horace (65 BC – 8 BC) was a Latin poet of the Golden Age of Rome.
The Day Was Gray
by Wilude Scabere
The day was gray…outside…the cloudy cover filled the skies.
He made himself a cup of Earl Grey tea; then he sighed.
He’d pulled the tea-box from his rustic alder cabinet
and placed the gray tea-bag into his cup and alphabet.
He started drinking th’ amber tea, and thinking varied thoughts,
like weather in Shakespearean plays he’d once read and sought.
He liked the taste of the black tea combined with bergamot;
it shone inside the bright, white cup, not as a juggernaut,
but rather like a jeweled jigger of the finest brew
that satisfied with each new sip, and tickled brain and rube.
Wilude Scabere is a poet of close-packed lines. William Shakespeare (1557-1616) was an Elizabethan playwright.
The Large Mechanic
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
It was 11:35. He was in the garage.
He leaned upon his car’s back window; it was no mirage.
Though strong and gleaming, white and aqua, it was not vitrage;
the clarity and purity, amazing, glazing, awed.
He had some chores to do, the large mechanic with his wrench,
and wished but only that he had a chair on which to sit.
The walls were painted white and light blue all around the bench,
wherein he struggled mightily amidst the oily stench.
He worked around the tool chest, shop vac, shelving and push broom,
the floor jack, and the air compressor. He enjoyed the room.
O, he spent quite a bit of time there working in that bay,
not cursing much, nor shirking what he had to do today.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of garages.
Amidst the Global Economic Slowdown
by Brad Lee Suciew
Amidst the global economic slowdown going on,
strong immigration and low housing stock, to get along,
he sought out any rental that did not cost him too much;
although he was quite willing to pay for some place as such.
He wished he had an understanding landlord who could help,
not some cru’l dude who only gave a damn for his own pelf.
Inflation was persisting. How much could he get for work,
especi’lly if his boss was hard, a rather lathered jerk?
He tried to keep an attitude both strong and positive;
but sometimes, o, he wondered so just what it took to live.
Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business.
The Fat Dude
by Carb Deliseuwe
The fat dude at the knotty, rustic, alder cabinets,
was standing tall, attempting…stalling there in ábidance.
He would not dance, in such a stance, but still desired to
reach high enough for all the stuff he wanted to accrue.
He turned off to his left to sip his nearby coffee cup.
O, how he wished he could reach higher, lifting, lofty, up.
He was content, although he felt he was too fat at times,
like now when he was striving to attain all that he might.
His look was agonizing, quite surprising, strangely wrought,
as if some foe would smite him low, while he still strove for height.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of kitchen moments. Publishers have been removing the word “fat”, inter alia, from the books of PostModernist British writer Roald Dahl (1916-1990).
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