To Michael Dana Gioia*

By Cal Wes Ubideer

The Word within the World that articulates itself
does not exist in sunlight or in leaves upon a shelf,
upon computer monitors, or on stones on a path;
the Word speaks only dialects of purest being’s math,
the human kiss somehow divine within the Mind of Man,
where it’s transformed into reality, the space we’ve spanned.

The Word of Wyrd that rises from the silence of the tongue
does not appear on shoulder gripped or arching neck unsung,
upon the bending of the knees, or hands upon the skin;
the Word prates of our whereabouts, this cosmos we are in,
mute syllables in silica upon Time’s falling sands,
that tell us what we’re doing in the lines of Fate’s commands.

*Dana Gioia is the Poet Laureate of California, the former chairman of the National Endowment for the Arts, and the author of the pivotal essay “Can Poetry Matter?”


Astorian Sunrise

By Ubs Reece Idwal

A silver ring, and radiating outward, bright blue strands.
Its beauty is spectatcular, its loveliness commands.
Set in the gorgeous sky that rises o’er the rolling dunes,
two moons climb up beyond the long and wrinkled, sandy noons.
Ah, one could dwell here for a hundred years and be content.
Such golden beaches, o, they are not easy to forget.
They are indeed inspiring by the whitecaps on the sea.
It is amazing that life offers up such ecstasy.
I draw my hand along its grain; I hold it close to me;
and then I fall forever with it through eternity.


After Buson

By “Lice Brews” Ueda

Here there’s no human:
only the vast sea rising,
falling, all day long.


Bruce Dale Wise is a poet living in Washington State who often writes under anagrammatic pseudonyms.

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5 Responses

  1. Lew Icarus Bede

    Michael Dana Gioia comment:
    Thanks for the response-in-verse. It’s interesting to hear my stress meter retuned into couplets–rather like Dryden revising Shakespeare’s “Antony and Cleopatra” into heroic couplets in “All for Love.”

    Bruce Dale Wise comment:
    I think it would be rather more like William Blake caught in the bland and grand illusion of an Auden tail-spin.

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