The Opening of the Winter Games, February 9, 2018
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
Fresh air is best, then water, yes, and gold to pay for food;
and better that the Sun keeps shining. That, indeed, is good.
But if my heart desires singing out for contests, then
the Winter Games in PyeongChang would be Olympian.
They opened with a dazzling display of dance and light
within the cold arena; without freezing, icy white.
The choreography arrangements moved with speed and skill,
like as a flower opening and closing up at will.
The myriads of friendly peaceful spectators within
contrasted with the warlike Spectre just beyond the din.
No glory rises to enfold the wisest poet’s song
far from the sunny shores of Sicily and King Hieron,
where Son of Cronos overlooked the spectacle of men
and women who are gathering, competing in the pen.
The choicest music played before the seated audience,
hospitable, formidible, some filled with arrogance.
Come take the Dorian lyre down from off its ancient peg
and warm the freezing era, each invited, paying guest.
There sat Kim Yo Jong, sister of cru’l, murd’rous Kim Jong Un,
along with other dignitaries, Abe, Pence and Moon,
Fred Warmbier, whose son died shortly after he was freed,
as well as Ji Seong-ho who escaped Korea’s bleed;
but others, like Kim Hak Song, Kim Dong Chul, and Tony Kim,
could not attend due to a previous engagement whim.
The figure skater Yuna Kim lit up the cauldron’s flair,
an upward turning, spiraling and flaming fire stair.
The flag-parade of nations introduced the athletes there.;
they walked in temp’ratures well-suited to the polar bear.
The first of nations coming in, traditionally Greece,
were followed by the lands of Ghana and Nigeria.
The Russian state was banned for drugging, by the IOC,
but individuals were still there able to compete.
The unified Korean team marched with the uni-flag,
a blue map of Korea on a white background’s crisp rag.
Though backdrop tunes included Gangnam Style, song by Psy,
the shirtless Tongan Taufatofua got the biggest cry.
The Game’s protector-mascot, Soohorang, took centre stage,
red, white, and blue lights, streamed the scene in scattered persiflage.
To make the ceremony entertaining on TV
required some augmented digital reality;
so constellations of the stars on screens, so radiant,
could not be seen by those in the Olympic stadium,
which cost more than one-hundred-million dollars to construct,
but once the Games are over with will be demolished, chucked.
The day before Pyongyang staged a bellicose parade,
goose-stepping soldiers in formation, trucks and tanks arrayed.
Four giant Hwasong-15 ICBMs rode along
with martial music blaring, stepping fierce white-tiger strong.
The day before in PyeongChang the norovirus spread;
known as the winter vomit bug, the guards were filled with dread;
1200 guards were being held within their rooms for tests;
900 military members helped to fight the pest.
Although there was no serious breach at the opening,
there was a cyber-hit, an Internet and WiFi sting.
There were so many marvels, mortal man can barely say,
a true account can be deceptive, lies fly through the day;
but Grace, who fashions gentle things for all, confers esteem,
and makes believe the unbelievable, as in a dream.
The Muse sends shafts of courage, some receive them willingly;
for some are great in one thing, others in another thing.
Though some believe the greatest limits are for only kings;
to walk on high through life is worth more than five coloured rings;
but to associate with victory, like Pindar did,
is as distinguished as those who achieved a pyramid.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of athletics.
The Skier on the Slope
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
I saw the skier on the slopes, bent over speeding down,
accelerating zero to one hundred on the ground,
in but six secs, as fast as is a Formula 1 car,
o, moving headlong over packed snow, like a shooting star.
As he descended, it appeared that he was very calm,
each pole secure and horizontal in each tight-cupped palm,
his body resting on his knees, his head small and compact,
aerodynamic, helmeted, as hard as hitting fact.
He zoomed along, straight-lining ev’ry slope he came across,
as if he were an arrow aiming for the target sought.
by Walibee Scrude
for David Watt
The golden wattle, native of southeast Australian haunts,
has flowers so arranged in inflourescent yellow globes,
with bright green leathery, flat, leaflike structures called phyllodes.
Acacia pycnantha is its scientifc name;
its fluffy, sweet and fragrant flowers, overflowing flaunts,
in euclayptus forests, grow as understorey plants.
It even flourishes when rushing fires ride hard-pressed,
regenerating freely after wild burning flames
that stimulate the germination of its seeds in same.
There is a po’m in ev’ry form of tree or flower, but
the poetry of Aussie flowers differs from the rest;
strange scribblings outpour from nature on its uniquest.
The thornbills and the honeyeaters pollinate their spill,
of nectaries on green phyllodes, they brush against the shrub,
and transfer pollen to the hanging flowers they have rubbed.
And though at times it is a weed that travels where it will,
Australians know they still are free if wattles take the hill.
Walibee Scrude is a poet of Australia. The wattle is its national flower. The above poetic structure, a wattle, was recently invented by David Watt, a New Millennial Australian poet. The wattle uses the ballad line, and has a rhyme scheme of abb caa dcc edd feeff.
“La Ville, 1919” by Fernand Léger
by U. Carew Delibes
Fragmented figures step down stairs confined by rails;
enveloped by a pale, enwrapped, light-purple pole,
rowed exes, ones and zeroes, towers, roads, assail,
near stenciled letters, windows to an urban scroll,
at once immediate, incomprehensible,
neat billboards, posters, shapes and signs, out of control,
detailed, overloaded, and insensible.
Lit white, curtailed by sharp and black contoured confines,
éclair in chaos, captured, indefensible,
green, yellow, red, and blue, unnatural, square lines,
eviscerating, diverse, visual details,
rectangular and curved, lens to the city’s shrines.
U. Carew Delibes is a music critic and poet enamoured of France, its art, its music, and
its poetry. His intimate circle of friends include art critic Beau Ecs Wilder and poet Claude I. S. Weber. His influences include, inter alia, the Impressionists, Les Fauves, Romantic composers
from Berlioz on, and the Parnassians, particularly Stéphane Mallarmé.