by I. E. Sbace Weruld
Our sun, a yellow dwarf, is only one
among the seventy sextillion stars
that scat-tered are throughout our universe;
and yet, it is the source of all life known.
Our fu-el and our food come from its throne,
sunlight that takes just minutes reaching us,
then Mars, the asteroids, to Jupiter
and far more distant planets and their zones.
Hans Bethe, back in 1939,
conjectured that its energy comes from
its super-plasma-hot-blast-furnace brine
that changes hydrogen to helium—
fused protons on a scale that is divine—
sextillion megawatts each second’s thrum.
I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the Universe. Hans Bethe (1906-2005) was a German-American physicist and winner of the 1967 Nobel Prize in Physics “for his contributions to the theory of nuclear reactions, especially his discoveries concerning the energy production in stars.”
by Esca Webuilder
The Internet was wonderful before the Corps took o’er,
so say the purists dreaming of blockchains to break the Force.
The Internet was never ever really all that great,
so say the disillusioned who enjoy the throngs of hate.
The Internet’s a failure locally and globally,
so say the hopeful who continue to be bub-bl-y.
The Internet could be improved, so say revisionists,
if only we could interface with the perfectionists.
The Internet is democratic, say the optimists,
that is, if you like mobs and tyrants say the pessimists.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet.
by Slade W. U. Bierce
They said they didn’t want her at their hero’s funeral.
She was not sent an invitation to the burial.
It would be best if Sarah Palin did not come at all,
and she should stay away from the great John McCain’s last call.
She said, “…we lost…a maverick…[who fought] for his beliefs…”
he “was my friend. I will remember,” him and family;
though some recalled he said last year he wished he’d never chose
her for his running mate, a “gut punch” he had to disclose.
“The Palin family will always cherish…friendship with…
McCains and hold those memories [as] dear.” The end. Pin this.
by Slade W. U. Bierce
“Kindness appears in the unlikeliest of spots.”
Beyond the scrub brush and the desert chapparel
in the ravine between two rounded, bulging hills,
there was a quiet, hidden, shady water hole
fed by the tiniest of rivulets and rills.
There was a man whose ranch was situated there,
as tan as any bison, not one of the Bills.
His skin was like the rugged saddle on his mare,
tough, leathery and malleable, wrinkly too.
The constant sun had dried it out in th’ arid air.
His pants were beige, his cowboy hat was white. I knew
he was one in a million, when he tipped his hat
and offered me a place to rest and golden brew.
Here in the midst of nowhere was where he was at,
yet treated me as if I were a general.
As long as I live I will never forget that.
Slade W. U. Bierce is a poet of the Southwest.
by Air Weelbed Suc
Day after day they come into the sprawling Metroplex,
the jet planes power down and crawl above the urban flex.
At times they come so close to you, you hope they will not crash,
each silver-gray jet soaring o’er, each wing-tipped flying shaft.
There in the sunlit azure, as you’re on your chaise lounge chair,
they make their weighty way along, up in open air.
300 metric tons, or so, they take their steady course,
decreasing altitude at 3o of plunging force,
by varying the engine power and pitch angle’s coach,
the airspeed constant, nonstop, for the final port approach.
Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of flying.
by Dic Asburee Wel
Fred Seidel sidled idly up to Robert Lowell’s cup,
and took a very little sip, when he began to sup.
He left Saint Louis, like T. S., for Harvard and for good,
where he found Pound unbound, in Washington D. C., and food.
When he went off to London, he met T. S. Eliot,
where he indulged in laughter, lightly and inelegant.
While reading poets of the Past, he passed by Milton’s steak,
and found it monumental, limpid, marvelous, and cake.
Final Solutions, his first book, caused a stirfry at the Y,
and finally, was taken only randomly, on wry.
From then, for seventeen long years, he drank and drank and drank;
and wondered if, like Finnegan, that he would ever Wake.
Then Robert Lowell passed away, and he began to cook.
His rode his motorbikes and baked, and made another book;
and then another, wondering how long each one would last.
I saw him (B)last! around the bend, and he was going fast.
Dic Asbery Wel is a poet of New York City, which is where Seidel lives.
by Ibewe de Sucre
The buildings, blue and white, stand rigid and upright,
but they seem small seen from the waters touched with brown,
el Rio de la Plata in unreal sunlight.
The masted boats fill a marina up; and down
along the coast are larger ships—just over there.
The trees that punctuate the sentence as a noun
are round and green, like nothing else in th’ arid air,
in Buenos Aires. People are not visible
here from this vantage point. The sky is gray and bare.
It does not give of bird or man. It is a bowl,
inverted and inevitable, concrete, bright,
the roof above no town of Ferdinand and Isabel.
Ibewe de Sucre is a poet of Argentina. His favourite Argentine poet and prosist is Jorge Borges.
by Luwese Becardi
It wasn’t built in a day. There’s too much to see.
Oh, where does one begin? the Ancients? the Changeless?
the early centuries of Christianity?
Wherever one begins, the view rearranges
itself around another era, an eon…
the Renaissance, the Baroque? One steps through ages.
the Englightenment? or the Risorgimento?
One passes through time’s portals. The Modern turns again.
One comes up to the Colosseum, Pantheon,
the Forum, so many museums, churches…then,
as in the Piazza Navona, Bernini,
the fountains, the hills, and the mountains of chagrin,
Saint Peter’s, Michelangelo, classic, antique.
Luwese Becardi is a poet of Italia.
The Stoic in the Stoa
by Aedile Cwerbus
Life always has been hard with only momentary rests.
How could you ever think that life would not be such a test?
Life is a jest and all things show it, do they not, today?
John Gay could prove it in his jauniced grave, and so could Gray.
But there are diff’rent ways to face the fury of this fact.
You need not be frenetic, fretting over ess or act.
You can be stoical in face of this undying law;
with mental fortitude you can endure life’s fatal flaw;
at least, until you can’t; then life can solve it all for you:
the truth will set you free, and so, thus freed, you can be true.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of ancient Rome. John Gay (1685-1732) and Thomas Gray (1716-1771) were Neoclassic British poets.
Reflections on Pessoa
by Luis de Cawebre
He knew not what tomorrow would bring him, Pessoa thought,
November 25, in 1935, he wrought.
He died next day. He was born back in 1888.
His father, five years later, died. O, he recalled the date.
July 13—it was a day that he would not forget,
the one important past event that was so definite
“required for rectification by direction”—Huh?
What does that mean? So very much and nothing at all. Duh.
He spent his childhood alone. He never joined a group.
Perhaps, in fact, it’s true of each of us. But he would droop…
droop to inertia and withdrawal, like a quiet pool,
his lids would drop upon his eyes, when he was young in school,
where he learned English rapidly and gained a certain style,
anonymous and pale, thin, imperfect and quite mild,
despite some spiritual and material, he said,
encumbrances of most especial adverseness, he’d dread.
He left South Africa to study in diplomacy
aboard the Herzog, leaving Durban, when but seventeen—
via the Red Sea, on to the Mediterranean,
remembering th’ enclosures, in the Opiário,
leaving behind him in the air, the drab edge of his smoke,
the small, black liner, clearing throat that almost seemed to choke.
Appearing clear and clean and classic, entering the morn,
but so unfortunate, the tugs advancing from the moor.
But, o, where has he gone? The birds there soared in unison.
Behind the harbour boats, the slim craft wobbled in the sun.
His soul’s with what he sees, saw most—vast seas of nausea.
Perhaps there will be those who will go on to India.
Arrivals and departures—sad and happy—move along;
the space between the ship and dock—he dared not sing a song.
Luis de Cawebre is a poet of Portugal.
Czech Karel Ĉapek (1890-1938)
by Aleš Eduw Rebič
He feared the nazi and the communist ascendancy,
and essayed for the free expression of humanity,
Czech Karel Ĉapek, author of the book “War with the Newts”,
more famous for his drama of perennial reboots,
first coined the new word “robot” in his 1920 play,
“RUR”, Rossum’s Universal Robots, here to stay;
there factory-made artificial people, “roboti”,
were forced flesh labourers, who were not just machinery,
like androids, replicants, or zombie-humanoids we find
who reason for themselves, though they embrace the unimind.
Aleš Eduw Rebič is a poet of Central Europe. Of “He feared the nazi and the communist ascendancy…” music critic Waldi Berceuse said “And rightly so! seeing how the Czechs were tyrannized by the nazis for seven years and the communists for over forty years”.
by Rus Ciel Dubeew
Yevgeny Nikolayevich Prilepin has been barred
from going into Bosnia; his stance is far too hard;
for he supports the Russian sep’ratists in the Ukraine;
security concerns will keep out his unruly brain.
He won’t attend the literary Srpska conference,
the former fighter at Ukraine and Chechnya battle-fronts.
The novels of this literary Bolshevik include
“Pathologies”, then “Sankya”, “Sin”, next “Black Ape” and “Abode”.
His books will have to speak for him, as he will not be there,
including heart-felt talks he’s had with Russian lit’rature.
Rus Cield Badeew is a poet of the vast Russian landscape.
That Unsung Moment: at the Libyan Desert
by War di Belecuse
It was a race for freedom, joy and cleanliness.
The soldiers threw their sandy clothing off and ran.
They longed to leap into the sea’s vast emptiness,
and there completely wash themselves, each single man.
They ran together as a group, arms swung, knees bent,
each body showing lines, pale skin against the tan.
For them, this moment to be buff was heaven-sent,
a respite from war. No one knew who would survive,
which body parts would still be functioning, which spent.
But for that moment, each was happy and alive,
evincing sheer camaraderie and comeliness,
all running in the sun beneath the open sky.
War di Belecuse a poet of war.
by Badrue Ecsweli
O, cry, beloved country, Mzanzi, o, Azania,
bound by Botswanaland, Zimbabwe, and Namibia.
So beautiful, the Great Karoo and drier Bushmanland,
where one would love to live and make a life and lovely stand.
But also, o, the flat interior, the vast plateau,
surrounded by the elevated Great Escarpment, o.
Such gorgeous, rugged hills arising in South Africa,
up to Mafadi, at Lesotho, in the Drakensberg.
O, cry, beloved country, torn from time and shorn from Earth,
if only you could crush your crimes and justice have new birth.
Badrue Ecsweli is a poet of South Africa.
In Dhaka, Bangladesh
by Waseel Budecir
“Across the World, the attack upon free speech is going viral.”
—R. Lee Ubicwidas
Two high school students had been killed in Dhaka, Bangladesh,
when they were struck by an unlicensed driver in a bus.
From 29 July to August 8, protests were held
by students who demanded safer roads and stricter laws.
The demonstration spread until they shut the city down,
and 18,000,000 people were beset by student crowds.
Then Shahidal Alam was taken into custody
for speaking out about armed goons and lack of liberty.
To voices calling for his freedom to express himself,
another voice this week chimed in, that of Amartya Sen.
Waseel Budecir is a poet of South Asia. Nobel economist Amatya Kemar Sen spoke out this week for the release of photojournalist Shahidal Alam, noting that “Freedom of expression…is extremely important for democracy.”
In the Afghanistan Wakhan Corridor
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
To halt the flow of terrorists and close the Uygur door,
within the isolated, Afghan Wakhan Corridor,
the Chinese government is building up a training camp
to help control the region of the passing Belt-Road ramp.
Beijing wants to crush terror-prone, extremist sep’ratists,
those forces threatening Afghanistan and Sino Pax,
like the East Turkestan Islamic Movement’s growing span,
especi’lly if it links up to the swelling Taliban.
Li Wei, a Sino counterterrorist consultant states
security will be enhanced with economic weight.
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China. The Chinese are very sensitive, and hence very serious, about border crossings. The Great Wall of China is not only an historical reminder of this, which is likewise mentioned in their national anthem (which must not be disrespected), it is part of their regulation of the Chinese Internet—the Great Firewall.
by Cal Wes Ubideer
Accountability, transparency, and search control,
consumer advocates are fighting Big-Tech’s data hold.
For far too long consumers have been powerless to fight
the Goolag Commie-Tsars and Facebook Social-Fascist might.
We have the right to know what data businesses possess
on each and every one of us; and this they must confess.
We have the right to say no to our information’s use,
and to delete what we desire; and not take such abuse.
We have the right to sue the companies that have disturbed
protected data when it’s breached. Such thefts need to be curbed.
We have the right to never be discriminated for
our personal particulars, details, facts, and more.
Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California, home of Silicon Valley, Big-Tech’s home.