Christmas Held, December 2017
by Dic Asburee Wel
“A very merry Christmas and a happy New Year…”
—John Lennon, shot December 1980 in New York
He rode in to Manhattan on a New York subway train,
the Bangladeshi Muslim, filled with hatred and disdain.
Enroute from Brooklyn, Monday morning, he was going to
the city center just to kill as many as he could.
The immigrant had hoped to murder hundreds with his bomb,
inspired by Islamic State—he wanted Christmas gone.
His pipe bomb was a combination, velco and zip ties,
and it was also partially made out of Christmas lights.
He filled his bomb with shrapnel, nails, in hopes he could blow up
the maximum grand total in the crowded transport hub,
there underground, down in the corridor between Times Square
and Port Authority Bus Terminal rush hour fare.
The moment the device erupted in the passageway
was captured on CCTV; quite early in the day.
It sent a cloud of smoke into the busy terminal;
three others there were injured; they went to the hospital.
He suffered burns and wounds himself; he looked like he’d been cooked;
and New York went about its business. Later he was booked.
And nearly everybody promptly went about their ways,
another would-be massacre forgotten in the haze
of more news stories pouring forth across the turning globe.
Another story spoke of soldiers who ripped off a robe;
though seamless, it was woven in one piece, a single meld;
and though there was such hate then too, it seems that Christmas held.
Dic Asburee Wel is a poet of New York City. In his youth he used to avidly fall-low the Beat-les.
#TwitterPurge, the 18th of December, Stalin’s Birthday
by Esca Webuilder
“All birdies are equal, but some birdies are more equal than others.”
—E. Birdcaws Eule
Enforcing arbitrary rules to crack down on dissent,
tech companies are censoring extremest alt-right vent.
So Twitter has begun its long-awaited Twitter Purge
to blacklist anybirdy who dare chirp disturbing words.
With Nixon-lover Roger Stone, and Sam Hyde’s comic group,
Vox Day and Tommy Robinson are now out of the loop,
Th’ idea is to censor those promoting violence,
like Jayda Franson, Jared Taylor, and Yiannopoulis.
Along with ethnocent Americana Renaissance,
goes Proud Boy Magazine and Occidental Résistance.
Down goes English Defense and Generational ID;
there is no room for them in the Orní-Community.
There goes the free-speech wing, it has been clipped by Twitter’s Clique.
The unsuccessful cage rebellion cut now to the quick.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the technosphere.
by Wilbur Dee Case
One never could describe the writings of a period,
because all of the works therein would be a myriad:
There’s oratory, allegory, satire and romance,
epistles, journals, memoirs, sermons, law and reference,
didactic, lyric, epic, education, history,
translation, science, criticism, and philosophy;
there’s comedy and tragedy, math and biography
short stories, fables, novels, essays, and theology,
expository, politics, descriptive, prophecy,
persuasive, narrative, e-mails, proverbs, poetry;
there’s drama, sketches, articles, how-tos and monologues,
advice, opinions, dissertations, resumes, and blogs,
notes, copywriting, editing, research and technical,
wit, humour…Damn, the best thing is to be eclectical!
Wilbur Dee Case is a poet and literary critic fond of the Middle Way, from the Rockies to the Appalachians.
by Euclidrew Base
Bernhard Riemann’s hypothesis is a conjecture that
the Riemann zeta function zeroes have real part one-half,
that is, if they’re nontrivial, not even integers,
those negatives that lie off left before the origin.
Bernhard Riemann’s hypothesis remains unproven yet,
though many have attempted to attack its pirouette;
and yet it is amazing for the things that it reveals,
a link to p and distribution of the primal reels.
Bernhard Riemann’s hypothesis has been checked out correct
for the first of two trillion answers, true without defect.
What Riemann guessed is certainly not an unwelcome guest.
Sometimes the things that can’t be proved can prove to be the best.
by Euclidrew Base
Zorn’s lemma states a partially and ordered set, say, P,
contains the property that every chain, that in it be,
must have an upper bound in P; therefore, contains at least,
one element that’s maximal. It seems that is its yeast.
Zorn’s lemma is equivalent to th’ axiom of choice,
which states that given any set of bins, each with invoice,
it’s possible to choose exactly one thing from each bin,
not needed if the set’s finite, but infinite, it’s in.
Zorn’s lemma, too, is like the theorem stating that each set
can be well-ordered, if each set has a least element.
Cantor felt it a fundamental principle of thought.
Zermelo gave a proof, one that was beautifully wrought.
Euclidrew Base is a NeoPlatonicPythagorean poet.
Update on the Sonnet
by Basil Drew Eceu.
Wise is the sonneteer who clothed in verse
will choose his cloth for what its swath will bear,
like Esther who addressed the Persian curse
or Joseph wearing bloody camo gear.
Wise is the sonneteer who no one sees
but high or low ‘ll cut an ernest ell.
Fain would he wave his weave with such as these,
no juster tailor found near shore nor dell.
Why at his back the words were thick and worn,
Ronsard, Camões, Pushkin, Rilke, Borges,
Keats, Hopkins, Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, torn,
Petrarca, Tasso, and the two Dantes.
How arduous he works at fulling mill,
a Daniel still say I, and dyeing twill.
Basil Drew Eceu is a poet of British vision and insight.
by Aedile Cwerbus
Of human life, time’s but a point, its substance, flux each day,
the composition of the body, subject to decay.
The soul’s a whirl, fortune’s hard, and fame’s devoid of sense,
perception’s dull, the mind lacks judgment, human nature’s dense.
In short, all that belonging to the body is a stream;
life is a warfare, strange its sojourn, soul is but a dream.
What, then, can help? One thing, and only one, philosophy,
superior to pain and pleasure, mete integrity,
accepting all that happens, struggle, strain, and certain strife,
without hypocrisy, with equanimity and life.
The dissolution of one’s elements is nature’s thread.
Why should a man have apprehension of his final breadth?
His Last Prologue
by Aedile Cwerbus
O, Thaleia, I’m here before you in a prologue’s guise,
allow me to convince you that an old man, bruised, but wise,
may have the same right as one had when he was young in age,
who in those olden days, made plays, from older ones, more sage;
thus making sure that humour did not disappear from time,
producing plays Caecilius had fashioned with his “rhyme.”
In some of them, that youth was jeered, in some, he stood his ground;
for fortune, in the theatre, is fickle, not profound.
He held on so, haphazardly, restaging older plays,
and helped Caecilius show off his new work for the stage.
That youth worked hard promoting these. He made sure they were seen.
And when they were acclaimed, they were successful labouring.
I gave this poet back his place, as second after him,
of plotting Plautine comedies, who beckoned laughter’s whim.
Though enemies of his defamed his genius and his work,
I did not scorn him as would any ordinary jerk.
If I would have discouraged him, he’d not have written more.
Now listen, and for goodness sake, be fair and hear my score.
I bring before you one more time, “Hecyra.” Heed me please.
I never yet have gotten through this comedy in peace.
Bad luck appears to hang around it, sadly you’ll agree.
It only can be saved by your own perspicacity.
When first I dared produce this play, news of a boxing match,
announced by shouting men and women, made me have to scratch.
(I can’t remember perfectly if it was that, in fact;
It might have been, if I recall, a tight-rope walker’s act.)
That day was shot, but I was not, and I was hot to try
again to see if I could make a go of it thereby.
But when I tried to put it on, the gossip circulates,
that gladiators will be fighting; people stormed the gates.
They pushed, they screamed, they shoved, they fought, they bickered over seats;
so much I could not keep the stage, my play’s demise repeats.
Today there is no mob. At least, right here there’s happy peace.
The time has come for me to act this humble masterpiece.
And you can dignify this festival attentively,
and give your name to further mine, and do so sensibly.
Let me not be beseiged by green detractors who demean
the actor and the playwright Terence, who will now be seen.
Regard him, hear his case, give silence to his worthy plea.
When he is gone, Rome will produce no more great comedy.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of the Roman Empire.