Lavinia Kumar has become a regular commentator on matters of the Arab Spring, through her poetry. Not surprising then, in a week when Tahir Square witnessed jubilant scenes following Mohammed Mursi’s presidential election win, New/Old Egypt found its way to our pages.
Mike Richardson pointed To the Weather Gods, after the deluge experienced across the UK. As we cruise into the music festival season, the reaction from many who had tickets for the Isle of Wight event proved that the preferred option of mud and music really is an urban myth.
In mid-week, we had a Higgs Moment, courtesy of L S Bassen. Have Physicists really detected what has continued to elude scientists for 40 years? And, while we’re seeking long overdue answers to historical riddles, the UK coalition has endorsed a revised bill for further reformation of the House of Lords. The perfect moment for Philip Challinor to pen his Fiddlers Three.
Meanwhile, In the Zoo, was Vala Hafstad’s take on the rhesus monkeys who have taken to mugging on the streets of Dehli.
Continuing in a zoological vein, Fly Fishing, by John Goss, informs us of how surveillance vehicles are being aerodynamically engineered in the form of insects, so they blend perfectly into their surroundings. My advice? Invest in a fly-swat.
Have a good week, and remember to keep those poems coming in.
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Sunday Review
Fly Fishing
Modern-day spies
are breeding like flies,
droning and groaning
they blacken the skies.
A flotilla in flight,
they spy day and night,
a thoroughly shocking
and awesome sight.
We’ve got our spies,
if you fasten your flies
beware of reprisals
if anyone ties
mosquitoes or gnats
or any such twats,
they are all going to feel
the weight of our swats.
We’re not on our own
we’ll spray any drone
that’s thinking of entering
our no-fly zone.
© John Goss
US military surveillance future: Drones now come in swarms?
John Goss is decoding the poetry of George Ivanov, a Russian émigré poet of the Silver Age. His great prose-poem, Распад атома (1938), was allegorical and gave clues to how the Australian language works.
In the Zoo
Look, here to our right is the human,
A beast most aggressive and weird.
The male is called “man,” female “woman.”
They once were respected and feared.
They built all the towns and the cities,
With factories, houses and schools.
They sat on a bunch of committees
And worked with a number of tools.
They often showed signs of aggression
And constantly seemed to wage war.
They suffered from plague and depression,
From ignorance, greed and much more.
The planet they treated quite badly:
Polluted the earth and the sky,
Ignored all the evidence, sadly,
And kissed preservation good-bye.
And that’s when we monkeys decided
That surely enough was enough.
Those humans had been so misguided.
Now we must rebel and be tough.
We started with organized mugging,
And biting, and chasing them all,
By stealing, and teasing, and bugging.
The beast felt its confidence fall.
It didn’t take long to defeat it.
The creature fled into its house.
Our regiment utterly beat it.
The beast was entrapped as a mouse.
Then most of the humans expired.
They died from pollution and flu.
Our new constitution required
We keep a few scores in the zoo.
They serve as a sorry reminder
Of fools, who so horribly failed.
How fortunate that a much kinder,
Responsible creature prevailed.
© Vala Hafstad
Indians Feed the Monkeys, Which Bite the Hand
Vala Hafstad lives in Minnesota. She writes humorous poems for children and, occasionally, their parents.
Fiddlers Three
Says Cameron: Gosh, we're reforming the Lords!
It won't take much doing, now will it?
We'll give it ten days as convenience affords,
And hopefully Labour will kill it.
Says Miliband: Labour believes in reform,
And will by convenience abide.
We're going to kick up a bit of a storm;
And then, if it suits, we'll subside.
Says Clegg: Labour's guarding its place in the sun;
Its foul machinations disgust me.
But - after all I and the Tories have done -
Well, dash it all, why don't you trust me?
© Philip Challinor
Cabinet endorses Lords reform bill with warning to potential rebels
Weblog: The Curmudgeon - You'll come for the curses. You'll stay for the mudgeonry.
Books: Philip Challinor's Books
Higgs Moment
Not a thought nor an ought in my mind.
This is the moment Satan cannot find.
Blake’s prophetic admonition;
Faust’s wish for the moment to last.
Reading is telescope, microscope, looking glass.
I can see pointlessness waver and gain mass.
Words bind me to this space and past.
The future will erase us all,
replacing with unknown scrawl,
fill the vacuum Nature so detests
that we are forbidden,
though driven to our rests –
this moment, the glimpse of that prophecy,
welcoming embrace of that destiny.
© L S Bassen
New Data on Elusive Particle Shrouded in Secrecy
L.S. Bassen won the 2009 APP Drama Prize & a Mary Roberts Rinehart Fellowship; 2011; She is a Book Reviewer for brooklyner.org, the rumpus.net, and press1, and has been a finalist for Flannery O’Connor Award.
To the Weather Gods
Now I know in days gone by there were festivals of pop
Mainly one on th' Isle o Wight three days music non stop
Then Reading came, and followed by Leeds.
The point is you God's of precipitation, you knew
That a drop or two would not dampen our enthusiasm
Or stop our earthly din
Nor did you stop raining on our parade of intense music
Or should that be in tents (lol)
But as we increased the number of our music fests
Leaving not one weekend really free from play
We did not expect you to do the same with rain.
You jest with our politicians too when they
Appoint a minister for drought or
Locally proclaim a hosepipe ban
Are you havin a larf!
Can we agree to reduce our festivals
Close Wimbledon, stop harvests,
And dare we say postpone Olympic feats.
I think not. We are at your mercy
You Cumulo, you Nimbus, Pack it in
Or we'll start burning that black stuff and then
You see how hot and acidic our anger burns!
© Mike Richardson
Rain causes gridlock at Isle of Wight festival
Mike lived in Pembrokeshire. After University in West Wales, he left for City Life. He still hankers after the country that has inspired his writing.