Work by Bruce Dale Wise:
I am a creator of charichords (anagrammatic heteronyms). The
first poems here are by one of my Japanese charichords.
Haiku
by
"Lice Brews" Ueda
Cougar-cloud claws paw
tall, snow-white Mount Rainier's top
with wide, swirling swipe.
Haiku
by
"Lice Brews" Ueda
A paper kite dipped
in a sunlit, steamy pond:
the teabag simmers.
Tanka
by
"Lice Brews" Ueda
Like a galaxy
of white stars on a green stalk,
bear grass bears its torch
in daylight over scorched land,
waving weaves of basket bands.
This next work is on one of my favourite Japanese writers,
who himself at the end of his life wrote
biographies; so I wanted to write a poetic biopoem on him. As Shuichi
Kato wrote (in translation): "Ōgai moved gradually from historical novels to
biographies...as he gained greater...respect for the facts...Undoubtedly he
wanted to gain a clear picture of the traditional culture through the figures
that had lived in it...His reasons for choosing Chūsai, Ranken and Katei may
have been because he saw in them possible alter egos for himself."
Mori Ōgai (1862-1922)
by
"Clear Dew" Ibuse
Son of a doctor to the lord of the Tsuwano clan,
Mori Rintarō was born in the southwest of
Japan.
At five he started studies of tradition's
apogees,
Confucius, Mencius, and classics of the
Japanese.
He was sent then to Tokyo to study medicine,
and stayed with Nishi Amene, once in the Netherlands.
At university, proficiency in German grew.
He joined the army medic corps at age of twenty-two.
He found himself in Germany, there studying hygiene
and European letters, both the new and ancient scene.
When he returned back to Japan, some four years
after that,
Mori Ōgai became a writing doctor-bureaucrat.
He married Adm'ral Akamatsu's daughter for a
year;
but acrimonious divorce left life a bit severe,
a bitter tear.
Resigned to working for Japan's march into
modern life,
he took up irony to cope with overwhelming
strife.
Spars with superiors sent him to Kyushu in the
south;
a quiet, four-year exile in Kokura for his
mouth.
Remarried, back in Tokyo, he kept on studying;
then Bureau Chief of Medicine for the War
Ministry;
but he was reprimanded by Vice-Minister of War
for his satiric Vita Sexualis mild
storm.
Offended by official-dom and growing
censorship,
shocked at the execution of Kōtoku Shūsui,
he wrote The Tower Silence showing
government attempts
to banish certain thoughts was kind of an
impov'rishment.
In 1912, the Meiji ruler, Mutsuhito, died
and Gen'ral Nogi Maresuke did his suicide;
from that point on he gradu'lly moved to biography,
from thence he placed a greater value on
integrity,
and chose to write of Tokugawa figures come
what may,
himself a classic now, like Chūsai, Ranken and
Katei.
One of my recent creations is a tennos, ten
lines of iambic heptametre. This was a posting of Mark Zuckerberg by one of my
Chinese charichords.
In Beijing Air
by
Lu "Reed ABCs" Wei
He strode across Tiananmen in blue athletic
shoes,
as if he were defying gravity—Mark Zuckerberg.
He ran above the reddish brick, as if upon the air,
a smile at his mouth and eyes, as if without a care.
His face was as a book that showed his untold happiness;
there was no violence at all, no wretched crappiness.
His arms and legs swung out from his brown tee shirt and
black shorts;
he with five others ran along—a picture-perfect post.
The misty atmosphere so white, so bright, o, quite a sight,
as if somehoe the World and ev'rything in it were right.
The following poem contains within its words the entire poem
translated in varied phrases in addition to the science and thematic concerns.
Astronomers Date Sappho Poem
by Esiad L.
Werecub
Astronomers and physicists have used advanced software
to date the lyric poet Sappho's undisturbed despair,
back in 570 BC on Lesbos rocky isle,
her sad and haunting, lonely lines: I wonder, would she
smile?
The moon had set back then, as had the starry Pleiades;
they left her in the darkness, on her couch and ill at ease.
At midnight, time was passing by, and she lay all alone;
nobody there to sense or hear her uncomplaining moan.
Did these researchers, furthermore, detect, the residue
of quiet resignation in the metred lines construed?
This poem came from an experience in San Francisco in June.
This poem comes from my trip this year to San Francisco.
Upon the San Francisco Bus
by Cal Wes
Ubideer
Down cluttered Chestnust Street, the red and white bus
chugged away,
past cars, shops, and electric lines, upon the pavement
gray.
Inside, a woman desperate to reach the passengers
put her petition forth, intent to get some signatures.
In broken English, she went round to each one traveling,
explaining how in China there's forced organ harvesting,
and Falun Gong practicioners are targetted because,
more disciplined, they're healthier, and perfect for a cut.
One could not help but feel her immense anxiety,
amidst the honking vehicles and human trafficking.
At the Amusement Park
by Cu Ebide
Aswerl
In twilight dusk, I took a walk, out just the other night.
The setting sun was brilliant in crepuscular delight.
I strolled along the avenue to see what I could see.
The moon was full, but empty, over all humanity.
The men and women, boys and girls, at the amusement park,
were having fun, and laughing some, as scarlet turned to
dark.
Some travelers went round and round upon the carousel;
unravelers went up the Freefall—fast—and then they fell;
some passengers rode roller coasters; you could hear them
squeal;
some fastened seat belts on their chairs and rode the Ferris
Wheel.
It seemed to me to be a mini-spinning universe,
vacationers and tourists, some high-flying visitors,
with astronauts and cosmonauts and other space cadets,
ace pilots flying rocket ships, and others placing bets.
Across the sky the Milky Way was shimmering and clear,
a brilliant panoply of lights, exploding, nuclear.
I stood amazed at the activity that swirling spun,
as darkness settled round the laughter-percolating fun.
Ah, yes, there was such happiness, it echoed past the cars,
a momentary cheerfulness amidst the hurling stars.
One of the reasons editors do not like my poetry is because
I frequently leave the lyrical for the dramatic, or the epic, to find poetry in
the factual.
Evaluations of Big Companies
by Brad Lee
Suciew
Verizon's buying Yahoo the two companies
relayed
for 4.83 billion—the shareholders will be paid.
The former searching pioneer, web portal juggernaut
will now be integrated into AOL it's thought.
The sale did not include its cash or Yahoo in Japan,
nor are its Alibaba shares part of the total plan.
Back in 2000, AOL and Yahoo valued at
$300 billion have been sold for 9.2, in fact.
The valuations of big companies can go—KAPOW!
Verizon is on the horizon—Do you hear me now?
Birth of Pacific Plate
by Cruse
Wadibele
By scrutinizing geologic evidence, it seems,
the origins of the Pacific Plate's techtonic seams,
that cover over seventeen percent of Earth's known crust,
were formed in the Jurassic era in a cluster-bust.
The plate's bEarth place, above the gravesite's old
techtonic death,
occurred when three crashed, and one sank into the planet's depths.
The remnants of the sunken plate remain embedded in
some place, perhaps now west of Costa Rica distant rim.
And now Hawaii teaches us that we can be content,
by chilling out, enjoying life, take in a continent.
Though, like Kafka, and so many of the expressionists, I am
also interested in the surreal.
Imagined
by Red Was
Iceblue
"The
only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream."
—Wallace
Stevens
The avant-garde and retro-guard sat on the garden bench;
they talked about a chocolate and french-vanilla quench.
They longed to have an ice-cream cone that they could linger
on,
while they were sitting, talking, dreaming, fingering the
dawn.
The morning light was taking flight into the afternoon.
In distant skies, their open eyes observed a serving spoon.
Two nice, cool scoops, peach, cherry drupes, positioned in
two cones,
were being licked by two tongues fixed upon the pinkish
globes,
inside imagined circuses in entertaining swirls,
with fancy, prancing dancers, riding horses, sequined girls.
The following poem is so crazy. It combines elements of the
classical Chinese novel Xi You Ji (Journey to the West), the measurement
this summer of the deepest blue hole in the World by Chinese scientists, the
real life Chinese monk Xuan Zang (602-664), who took a 17-year trip to India to
bring back Buddhist texts to China, while dropping hints of present-day Chinese
imperialism in the South China Sea, as well as the persecution of Falun Gong, a
qigong of the Buddhist school. It incorporates fictional characters and props,
along with technological jargon and colloquialisms.
Their Journey to the West
by Wu
"Sacred Bee" Li
Colonialist Chinese, in their journey to the West,
explore the Dragon Blue Hole in their underwater quest,
like as the Monkey King, who stole the gold-band iron rod,
they sent depth-sensored VideoRay Pro 4 on their pod.
These searchers in the Paracels discovered it was steep,
the roughly circular sink hole, 300 metres deep.
The Monkey King storms into hell; he claims this hole is
his.
The grand Celestial Emperor asks Buddha for his wiz.
The Buddha has the Monkey King escort Monk Xuan Zang,
but will he ever get the Sutras to the Falun Gong?
I put this poem in only for your perusal, because of the
time you left China (1960). I think it will be published later this month. (By
the way, if you are interested, I could send you a work a few works back Sonnets
from the Chinese, a group of 59 sonnets of varying quality, on Modernist,
not Postmodernist, Chinese writers, predominantly poets.
On Looking Back
by Lu
"Reed ABCs" Wei
On looking back upon the Great Leap Forward, what is found
is what in ordinary circumstances would astound.
Some tens of millions died from '58 to '62;
some forty million people died, for things they dared to do.
One boy, who stole a handful of...grain in a Hunan town,
...was buried alive by his father, buried in the ground.
A few days later that dad died of grief for what he'd done,
forced to the brutal act by local boss Xiong Dechang.
Wang Ziyou had an ear chopped off, his legs tied up with
wire,
then stoned, and branded with a sizzling tool's electric
fire;
because he'd done a thing most horrible in Chinese eyes,
he'd dug one small potato up, which Communists despise.
In Shanghai, on March 25, in 1959,
Mao ordered party personnel to buy the grain supply.
He said it's better to let half of all the people die,
so that the other half can eat their fill, like Zhou Enlai.
In these last three years I am finally getting traction for
my poetry; but one area that continually fails is my mathematic poems. No one
has picked one up yet. Here are some recent poems.
In Harmony and Strife
by R. Lee
Ubicwedas
I do agree with William Rowan Hamilton that math
is as artistic as poetics, on a truth-filled path.
I don't agree with William Wordsworth science only is
applied to the material and crushes images.
It seems to me all knowledge is based on our languages,
symbolic, aural, visual; all are advantages;
the alphabetic, hieroglyphic, algebraic, and
equations, similarities; all help us understand.
I dream of the confluence of all ways of seeing life,
the universal energy in harmony and strife.
Most of my mathematical poems are written by mathematical
charichord Euclidrew Base.
From Perelman With Love
by
Euclidrew Base
Millennium Prize Problems number only seven, and
the only one to solve one is Grigori Perelman.
His first accomplishment, his proof in 1993,
the Soul Conjecture in Riemannian geometry,
showed that math-object properties can be deduced just from
small regions of that very object from which they have come.
From thence, he worked alone on Poincaré's
Conjecture in
Saint Petersburg, away from posturing and
lecturing,
to prove that every closed 3-manifold connected
is
homeomorphic to a 3-sphere—gifted, technic
bliss.
He posted 3 preprints upon the arXivorg.[dot]
site,
and then withdrew from math and media, an
eremite.
He said that he had little interest for any
fame
or money that might chase him down from whence
his brilliance came.
He said, I'm not a hero, or successful; that is
why,
I don't want to have everybody looking at my
life.
A Glimpse into the Mathematics of the Period
1900-2000
by
Euclidrew Base
Increasing generalization and abstraction was
the trend; watch words completeness and
consistency—the buzz.
The theories grew, group, model, graph, and
singularity,
catastrophe, game, category, and complexitiy,
topology, knot, sheaf, and functional analysis,
along with chaos, logic's incomplete paralysis,
cryptography, computer architectural design,
new fundamental chemistry and physics on the
line,
sets, algorithms, information, and technology,
packed fractals and axiomatic probablity,
complex dynamics, origamics, turbulence, and
proofs,
continuum hypothesis, sudoku, rubik's cube,
four-colour prob-solve, structural approaching
disconnect,
an arcing brainbow soaring past the butterfly
effect.
The Inter-universal Teichmüller Theorist
by
Euclidrew Base
The arithmetic IUT, Teichmüller theorist,
Shinichi Mochizuki, a math wizard realist,
has delved into some number fields with elliptic curves
that most don't dare without the wherewithall or dauntless
nerves.
A list of subset theories he embraces frightens most,
p-adic curves, Frobenioids, and 3/4-manifolds.
So many things one hardly knows where to begin the chores
deciphering his Inter-universal math, and more.
His theory is complex, and it includes much that is new.
How will the populace at large know if his truths are true?
On the ABC Conjecture
by
Euclidrew Base
1. The Conjecture.
One David Masser talking to one Joseph Oesterle,
as if at a cocktail party thrown by Barthelme,
about a prior paper posed on polynomials,
threw up—egad—discuss(t)ing it—where are the paper tow'ls?
If a and b and c are positive and
integers,
and relatively prime, like shiny, souped-up, vintage cars,
and satisfy the small equation, a plus b is c,
then c is smaller than the radical of abc,
up to the power—surging, O—of one plus epsilon,
for every epsilon that's greater than n0ught—skips
along.
2. The Proof?
Shinichi Mochizuki posted, August 2012,
four papers on the web that proved to be a big bomb-shell.
Within more than 500 pages, he claimed he had
proved
the abc conjecture. Chatter hit the blogs. It
moved.
Across the Internet elation turned to disbelief,
when no one could decipher his new theory, IUT.
One person said, the reason-able souls who come
to it,
end up incapable communicating what there's
writ;
another said, you feel as if you're reading
papers from
the future, or from outer space—swashbuckling
masterdom.
This next poem, like most of my tennos,
combines fact with poetic colour.
The Perseids
by I. E.
Sbace Weruld
"Each
time I see the Perseids; I'm reaching out for Percy Bysshe."
—Basil
Drew Eceu
Across the August sky the Perseids are flying blind
through trails of debris an ancient comet left behind.
Each shooting meteor is a Swift-Tuttle's tiny piece,
that's orbitting the Sun each one-and one-third centuries.
Each swing it takes, throughout the inner solar system,
leaves
small particles within its wake, some trillion bits of
these.
These shooting stars are called the Perseids because they
seem
to stream out of the constellation Perseus agleam.
The meteors seen now are really hundreds of years old,
and may have traveled billions of kilometres, or more.
Andfinally, here is one of my many Indian charichords.
The Padmasana
by
Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the padmasana, there upon the mat.
He bent his knees and stretched his legs, aware
where he was at.
He lifted up his spirit's spine, from hips up
to his head.
He closed his eyes, but opened up his mind; it
was wide-spread.
He dreamed of hills, high, rugged, rough, they
rose up to the sky.
He longs to see life waterfalling with his inner eye.
He felt his brown-and-white-striped tee shirt,
keeping him contained,
so he would not fly off...but still new height
could be attained.
His knees were braced. His legs were firm. His
neck stretched in the air.
His elbows bent, he was content, as if he
wasn't there.
