Shipwreck Off the Coast of Africa
by Eswer El Cubadi
“Can I escape from fell Charybdis and ward Scylla off?”
—Homer, Odyssey, Book 12, Line 115, Odysseus to Circe
At Sfax, the news was horrible—five dozen dead—and more,
near to Kerkenna Island off of north Tunisia’s shore.
Increasingly the human traffickers launch people from
Tunisia, now that Libya is tighter than a drum.
The boat was packed with migrants fleeing Africa to be
free from the lives they do not like for hope in Italy.
But, o, alas, the relatives of those who learned the worst,
their souls, like Dido’s when Aeneas left her, are accursed.
And further off, up north, Salvini said at Sicily,
“We will no longer be the camp for Europe’s refugees.”
The Battle of Khasham
by Liwa De Bucseer
On February 7, 2018, Syria,
a battle, under circumstances quite mysterious,
occurred, when Russian soldiers, with the forces of Assad,
launched their assault on Kurds and US forces—Oh, my God!
They charged with tanks and rifles, these three squadrons of the Beast,
against the democratic-force headquarters in the East.
But they were ill-prepared when the Americans fought back,
with helicopter gunships, they were stopped in their attack.
That force that crossed the formal deconfliction zone that night,
with tanks, artillery, and heavy weaponry, to fight,
and fired many rounds at Kurds and US special ops,
did not expect the back-up calls, or Raptor, Reaper drops.
Iranian and Russian mercenaries there were killed;
some couldn’t even be ID’d, amidst the blood-bath spilled.
So what did Putin and Assad think, and Khamenei too,
when their charge of the light brigade was blasted out of view?
Liwa De Bucseer is a poet of the Middle East.
Koka Istambulova, June 1, 2018
by Rus Ciel Badeew
“You can’t please some people—ever.”
—Cur A. Wildebees
This week she celebrated her birthdate—129—
a woman who has lived through wars and grim, distressing times.
She says she’s never lived a happy day in her long life,
outliving all her children, Koka Istambulova.
Some centenarians say diet caused longevity,
while others credit exercise for continuity;
but she believes it was God’s will, a punishment, not gift;
in Brotskoye, she feels that it’s been her fate to live.
Her date of birth, is listed June 1st, 1889;
but not a moment did she feel that it was divine.
Rus Ciel Badeew has to go back to his great-grandfather on his mother’s side for someone who was near to Koka Istambulova, in time and space. Gustave Eberhart, born in Odessa, Ukraine, in 1880, died in 1968. The one piece of advice he picked up from him was his admonishment to be a scholar, so he wrote out the German alphabet and the Russian alphabet for his great-grandson in ink on lined paper.
by Badri Suwecele
Above the domes and roofs of Mumbai, India,
and over the Arabian Sea, at sunset,
one sees cloud streams of golden-ruby in the air,
hot pigeons fluttering, far off from cold Tibet.
One hears amidst the heavy evening traffic flow,
occasionally, sounds of sitar strings plucked at.
Beside rich palaces and poor ramshackl’d shacks, rove
the countless vehicles of millions, lions, light,
a swirl of green, yellow, orange, scarlet, indigo,
and deepest purple gleams, all shimmering in white,
as darkness drops pollution on the city of
a people striving to arise, a living sprite.
Badri Suwecele is a poet of India. Among his favourite foods is heavenly chicken saag, naan bread in in tamarind chutney, and mango mousse. As he is writing these words down, he just came back from eating Indian cuisine. This poem is a bilding [sic], an invention of Uwe Carl Diebes.
Marina Bay Sands
by Lee Du “Crab” Siew
Marina Bay Sands triple towers rise in Singapore,
linked at the top with cantilevered garden, its top floor,
Sky Park, which holds dynamic, hectare-lengthy motorboat,
on 57th floor, soars forth securely, flight in float,
with swimming pool 150 feet long, up so high,
like as an azure diamond lake set shimmering in sky;
this Moshe Safdie project for casino, shops and more,
though different from Habitat Six-Seven, Montreal,
still shows his interest in horizontal urban life,
the ebb and flow of concrete soul, poured over geostrife.
Donald Trump’s summit with Kim Jong-un is planned to take place in Singapore’s Capella Hotel on Sentosa Island. Peacocks roam Sentosa, which in Malay means “peace and tranquility”. It seems Dennis Rodman “The Worm” will arrive in Singapore the day before the meeting on June 11.
At the Shangri-La
by Lee Du “Crab” Siew
The Shangri-La hotel, on Orange Road in Singapore,
has over 700 rooms on over forty floors.
Strategic Studies Inter-nation Institute each year
holds SLD “Track One” talks on security and fear.
Inside the ballroom, Modi sketched a rules-based order scheme,
while Secretary Mattis shared his Indo-Pacif dreams,
the both of which the Chinese find disfavour for their plans
to take control of the South China Sea-Realm of the Han.
The panels covered flashpoints all across the Asian-scape,
while gossip focused on NK in lobby and cafe.
Lee Du Crab Siew is a poet of Singapore. Though it has not been verified, rumour has it that various friendly Western and Asian intelligence agencies exchange information in another meetingplace at another locale.
On English Language Strands
by Lee Du “Crab” Siew
“On Margate sands/ I can connect/ Nothing with nothing.”
—T. S. Eliot, “The Wasteland”
F. M. S. R., the v,
was a consolidated railroad back in the day.
It went from down south Singapore to north Padang Besar,
up at the border of Siam, in clanking, roaring car,
which poet Teo Poh Leng took, in bumpy English ride,
before the outbreak of the war, along the countryside.
And then the crash occurred. The Japanese and World War II
invaded the peninsula. Oh, 1942.
While T. S. Eliot remained in England in the war,
the poet Teo Poh Leng…English, left forevermore.
F. M. S. R. published in 1935 in London is a poem modeled partially on T. S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland” by Modernist Singapore poet Teo Poh Leng (1912-1942) also known as Francis P. Ng. Siam became Thailand in 1939, then reverted to Siam 1946-1948, after which it has remained Thailand.
by Walibee Scrude
Like as a tatooed viper on the ledge where he reclined,
defiantly he raised his neck, hot mad, out of his mind,
he raised his fist, he kicked his leg, he put his best foot forth;
it was as if he was an angry compass pointing north.
He was upset, infuriated, uptight to the max,
so tense, he seemed as hard as rocks; no part of him was lax.
His narrow form upon the edge seemed ready to attack,
although he’d been assailed and thrown down upon his back.
But that was not the end of him; he still had more to give,
as if he were a viper come alive, at war to live.
Walibee Scrude is a poet of Australian wildlife.
The Steady Drip
Caud Sewer Bile
In spite of wire-taps, the FISA warrrant-filtered smiles,
the Crossfire Hurricane op, raining out the campaign spies,
paid foreigners to set up peeing-hooker anecdotes,
unmasking, leak-ing, using secret-type sub-pee-na notes;
in spite of this, and Irri-gate, oh, bomb a President,
oconus lures set for Gold Mop’s improbable ascent.
It seems that Water-gate is but a drop compared to this—
the deep-state, Spy-gate, sheep-fate, pie-plate, Swamp-land Bog Abyss.
Of course, it is denied, with surreptitious, mole-like shrug,
as Drain-Stream Meady, uh, dew wash it down the sink, and plug.
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the Swamp, who stalks the Creature from the Dark Lagoon.
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
The largest particle detector of its kind on Earth
has not tracked down dark matter in spite of a year-long search.
Though thought to make up most of the eternal cosmic stuff,
dark matter has not been discovered, calling nature’s bluff.
Known as XENON1T, th’ experiment has been designed
to find dark matter, though none knows if it can be divined.
No weakly-acting interactive massive particle,
no WIMP has been discovered in the liquid xenon pool.
Though none be found, some physicists still seek out axions,
to see QCD break CP symmetric Peccei-Quinn’s.
I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the cosmos.
by Erisbawdle Cue
Nay-sayer A. J. Ayer’s “Language, Truth and Logic” brought
Vienna Circle’s Logic-Positively wrought, taut thought,
of Schlick, Carnap, Neurath, Hahn, Frank, Kraft, Feigl, and Gödel,
von Mises, Menger, Waismann, Kaufman, Zilsel, and as well,
Quine, Tarski, Hempel, Nagel, Reichenbach, and Morgenstern,
Frank Ramsey, Karl Popper, and grand Ludwig Wittgenstein,
to England in the 1930s, with a glimpse of its
iconoclastic and sensational, mind-blowing blitz.
Despite association with the brand new sciences,
like Quantum Theory, Relativity, Mach high-intense,
and fresh approaches caught in logical analysis,
like Boole, de Morgan, Frege, Russell, and Moore common sense,
unverifiable, not that much still remains intact;
reductionism didn’t work, and turns out wrong, in fact.
But even if the movement couldn’t get the right unpacked,
at least it left irrational and negative plans wracked.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy. No “advances” in logic had occurred since the time of his favourite philosopher Aristotle (384 BC-322 BC), until over two millennia later in the 19th century.