"pythagorean" poems
Focus.
Linear
equations.
Quadratic
functions.
Pythagorean
theorems.
Sunshine sacrificed for
symmetry.
Daylight dropped for
diameter.
Windows that confine.
Tease.
It's the way yearning clouds hug lonely
trees.
It's how the sun
graces
all with
perfect, gentle hands.
The passion behind these
eyes
are hungry for
escape.
Focus.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
Is there an order?
In there an approximation of pi
circling our first awkward flirtations?
Does a dragon curve lurk hidden as I
caress the curvature of your spine?
Where does Euclidean geometry fit in to the
first time our lips met?
Does the Pythagorean theorem detail our most intimate
love making?
A quadratic formula for the shameful
discarding of punched in picture frames?
Is there a golden ratio that best expresses
hurried apologies and frantic entanglements
between our sheets?
I know for certain there was
a simple subtraction
on the day your tears added up everything
and finally said goodbye.
Some would say there is order in this
chaos disguised as order disguised as
chaos
Continually debating pattern recognition
or butterfly effects
But I’d like to think
We were more subtle than that
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 6:00 PM UTC
my intelligence is not defined by a number, nor a letter.
nor should I be graded on a curve
by people
who don’t know me.
What does knowing the pythagorean theorem
have to do with me being a good person?
what will memorizing words on a page
help me with my rage
raging about how education has become
this conveyor belt
chewing up and spitting out
society’s warped up idea
of intelligence.
Throw me in a classroom with twenty-something students
just to tell me I’m better than him
but not as smart as her
teachers saturating our brains
with force fed textbook equations
telling us this is what we have to know to make it
“make it on time”, they say
“Passing it in late is not okay”
but when I am eventually thrown out
of this conveyor belt of education
the realization will be that life does not have
a set schedule.
my life will not change on time, as you ask
I cannot cram my creativity onto a five-paragraph
piece of paper.
I cannot crunch my knowledge
down onto six pages
about who I am
Don’t give me guidelines
my future does not have guidelines
you think you’re teaching us information
but in reality, you’re teaching us around the system
of how to get a passing grade
but not the exceeding knowledge
knowledge about what?
Our history?
what about our future?
We can’t learn about our future by staring at a blackboard
in a dim-lit room
with twenty-something other people
wondering what the hell we’re doing here
but being too scared to stand up
and ask.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
Natural inclinations ,
unrequited vindications,
unadorned specifications.
These all make for reservations
of forced vacations -
like a sad
and elongated
pythagorean theorem
that always equals =
a bad poem.
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 9:01 PM UTC
I am a writer,
And artist if you will.
I dig my claws into my emotion.
I grab it with white knuckles like
The ghost of my visions.
I make beautiful things out of trash.
Tell me if you can,
Can you show me hatred and fear
In the cold hard brittle equations
You use?
Where is love at first sight in the quadratic equation?
Or the happiness I feel,
Is that in the Pythagorean theorem?
Tell me if you know.
I'm curious
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
You are the triangle in my Pythagorean Theorem.
Circles may be never-ending,
but I would rather be quite clear on our angles and
all that other nonsense.
I'd rather be equivalent or at the very least,
equidistant.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 2:48 AM UTC
All sorrow is perpendicular occurring
at right angles of tragedy encircling
the grief-stricken with straight edges
only once intersecting across infinite planes—
Don't dare draw the lines between points
or shade the region with limits or curves
because the trajectories of bullets are plotted
on branes intolerant of slightest triangulation
Woe unto the seekers of sine waves
sobbing thinking of filling every trough
believing surely by now we've offered enough
to sate these bloodthirsty Euclidean demons
Cresting won't ever arrive in this course
filled to the brim with asymptotes, cold corollaries
but never spilling over under our sacred
pledge of allegiance to the 2nd Parallel Postulate
No intersections can be admitted with thoughts
& prayers extending outward barely co-planar
serious public policy proposals axiomatic
insistence on the Nirvana Theorem or nothing
A set of all points remains, mutually exclusive
motionless and always incongruent clueless
about their own particular geometries
awaiting radical Pythagorean salvation
Some paradigm we’ve built here though!
Two hundred years of living polygonal hand
to elliptical mouth without tangential reflection
on the unproven flatness of humanspace.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 4:41 AM UTC
There were efforts to sling a steeple around a cloud,
to enclose a smoke ring in a palm,
bring a mountain to a riverbed. They failed.
Something of a Pythagorean charm is retained
for garbing oneself in white,
the precision of mathematics
performing beautifully the rites.
To refrain from bean-eating.
One who has held their hands
beating the air
for a long time
gains a kind of theorem for dignity,
despite having no solution to show.
Wrinkles reveal this was not the beginning but
a palimpsest, set over another work so old
the efforts must continue as the equation foretold.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 11:02 PM UTC
The Dying Romantic Mathematician
“Your trapezoid is vectored to a sphere”
She sighed, “and parallels are polygon.”
“All, all is perpendicular,” he coughed,
“And arcs are so rectangle to sad Pi
Equiangular in the radius
And rhombus has gone Pythagorean.
O canst thou concave the isosceles?”
“Yes!” she coplanared. “Yes!” he gasped in pain,
“Oh, yes, our love is solved for X!"
He died,
Quadratic equations upon his lips
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 12:01 PM UTC
Look out here
It comes
Sum of someone's sums
Perverse calculation
Trigonometry as sensation
Graphic illustration
Of a pre-ordained mathematic
Desire
Intersexual intellectual
Pythagorean triangle of lust Figures
Add and attract
Add and subtract
Add and subtract
This physical abstract
To form the total goal
To fit the math of a
Human hole
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 6:15 PM UTC
***Here we find
our greatest scientist
professing an independent Theorem
outside of thought and perception..
He admits this as belief
and also admits: this separate reality
he cannot find...in his science..
Our experience tells us:
this old Theorem is thought arising
in infinite Awareness..and there remains..
We search..as did he.. to no avail to find
the Theorem residing outside..
Would it astonish Dr. Einstein
that the Theorem we experience
..as could he..
is made altogether.. of Awareness...?***
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 8:39 PM UTC
Soon, the weight of independence
will swat me from my day-dream
like a gnat from the sky.
For the life in the great beyond
is hell for the naive
and I am but a fledgling
in a lake of swans.
What have I learned about being human
and what must I still learn
before I am ******
into the void of 9-5
and ''car-pooling"?
I still dance beside the river
and swing in the park.
I still stay up to late
and sing too loud
to old songs from Disney.
And now society demands
that all of my future endeavors
will be decide by
some letters
that don't evaluate my worth
as a human being.
My entire life, present and future
have become rooted in knowledge
that contributes nothing
to my personality,
morality,
my goals as a
person.
(or is that no longer a relevant term?)
Freedom, Independence,
The American Dream.
And when I lay in my coffin
and reminisce
on the adventure that was life,
and how I touched lives
and solved personal issues,
rescued friends
from normality.
How I fought for the betterment
of a minority,
I will be glad I learned
Pythagorean Theorem,
Newton's Law.
I will smile coldly in my grave.
I shall thank the Lord
I went to college.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 2:34 AM UTC
Those algebraic expression you gave
made my heart go nonrhythmic
like finding the cosine
in your Pythagorean theorem
I can't express
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 3:43 AM UTC
The sound of my beating heart echoes off these walls of my room.
I'm implanted in darkness, but all I can see is a vivid picture of you and I.
My body trembles as my thoughts of you continue to grow bigger and bigger, as does my love.
And you can feel it too.
And I don't want to let this slip away like my father did.
Five years since I've seen him.
It feels like a lifetime.
But at the same time, it feels like I've known you for a lifetime.
And at the same same time, lifetime is the word to describe how long I want us to be together.
But right now I feel like I'm forcing this down your throat, constantly
Day after day like a disease.
I feel like I'm hurting you with each word I say because with each word I say more and more of my affections fall from my heart and my mouth like sand through an hourglass.
I want to give you the world wrapped in a rainbow.
"This is yours" I whisper.
"I am yours."
And I feel like you're stuck in an abyss, falling deeper and deeper forevermore into agony and sadness.
And I just want to swing in on a rope and save you.
I want to dry your tears like the sun dries a desert, which seems to describe what he's doing to your heart.
He's leaving it dry and barren.
He only pleasures your heart with a sprinkling of false affection.
He wouldn't travel to see you, but I would fly to the sky just to bring you back the stars.
And now I feel we're in a Pythagorean theorem situation, just looking for a solution.
And with every word and every thought I feel like I'm driving you and your affections away but I don't want that at all.
I've realized all along that not even space can separate us.
We're bonded together by something too strong to break.
Passion, caring, love.
And I just hope you feel the same and never lose that hope.
And someday, we can share that hope together.
As we are together.
In each others arms, shielding each other from everything that tries to break our spirits.
Anyone that tries to make us pebbles in their shoes, just for them to act as giants and crush us.
And someday, when it's you and me, I'll give you the world and whisper, "This is yours. I am yours."
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
They say 4/3 people
Are bad at math,
I guess I am one of them,
Belonging to something finally.
Belonging to a society that hates the
Shape of the number 3
And when asked the
Cosine of pi,the
Best answer
Is the silence of the dead
Welcome to the torture chamber
There's no need for that sign
The sentiments are already
Felt.
Abandon hope all ye who enter here
There's no need for those famous
Lines they are already
Inside every breathing body
Whose sweat slides down
The sides of their minds
In horror of having to learn the
Pythagorean theorem.
And yet there are some who have
Mastered this death
Some who we call geniuses
Not writers
Not artists
Nor talented speakers
But people who are smart
At what most people are not
Those are the geniuses
Not us
Never us
Never me
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
Three passions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind. These passions, like great winds, have blown me hither and thither, in a wayward course, over a great ocean of anguish, reaching to the very verge of despair.
I have sought love, first, because it brings ecstasy - ecstasy so great that I would often have sacrificed all the rest of life for a few hours of this joy. I have sought it, next, because it relieves loneliness--that terrible loneliness in which one shivering consciousness looks over the rim of the world into the cold unfathomable lifeless abyss. I have sought it finally, because in the union of love I have seen, in a mystic miniature, the prefiguring vision of the heaven that saints and poets have imagined. This is what I sought, and though it might seem too good for human life, this is what--at last--I have found.
With equal passion I have sought knowledge. I have wished to understand the hearts of men. I have wished to know why the stars shine. And I have tried to apprehend the Pythagorean power by which number holds sway above the flux. A little of this, but not much, I have achieved.
Love and knowledge, so far as they were possible, led upward toward the heavens. But always pity brought me back to earth. Echoes of cries of pain reverberate in my heart. Children in famine, victims tortured by oppressors, helpless old people a burden to their sons, and the whole world of loneliness, poverty, and pain make a mockery of what human life should be. I long to alleviate this evil, but I cannot, and I too suffer.
This has been my life. I have found it worth living, and would gladly live it again if the chance were offered me.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 5:02 AM UTC
It is the same thing that we are told over and over
In all our classes, all our days
For one hundred and eighty days on end.
In math we are told about the Pythagorean theorem and Pathetic Fallacy~~
But some of us still do not know the value of "X".
It is after parents get called from teachers saying that their child is:
hyperactive
easily distracted
unfocused
doesn't do the proper thing
And that their child, who is brilliant, cannot be in a Level One class.
We all have different abilities and thought processes.
Why is it that a class full of individuals is tested by all of the same means?
Exams are the way society tells you your worth.
But it is the same society that:
says abortion is wrong but then looks down on teenage parents
promotes natural beauty but has models flushed with makeup, hair extentions, false lashes, and nails
shows slender people for their weight loss commercial that look like an hour glass already
has pastors that preach charity but own jets and sports cars
has Imams who preach against greed but are all fat
has parents who want their child to get a good education to get a good paying job but hate how rich the neighbors are
is run by governments that preach peace but endorse war
Has colleges who want smarter kids but increase the tuition
What does it mean to "make the mark?"
to the kids who study hard and barely miss the target
to the kids that know what it feels like to be worth that D or that A when a teacher hands back a test
to the kids who are never good enough in their English teacher's eyes
to the kids whose writing is missing key literary techniques or was too informal to be understood
What does it mean to "make the mark?"
to the math teacher who pesters you about trying harder when you can't tell them "X" but can tell them the date of any war
to the science teacher who tells you to know the periodic table and yells in distress of their 'worst student'
We're told everything that we learn we'll use the information again but never do when we walk out the door.
They try to prepair you for the world, but they don't prepair you for life.
always being the second best
not getting the scholarship that you needed to go to college
not getting the solo on your last concert night.
not being able to make the mark
What does it mean to "make the mark?"
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 8:38 PM UTC
(picture of feindflug's vierte version compact album sleeve not included.)
one day a compact silver,
might be worth more than a 33 1/3,
as tim wonnacott might say:
today’s youth are not into clutter,
they’re moby minimalists;
but i say: what sort of still life
would anyone paint without the clutter
of things, colours people?
i guess modern art is also anti-clutter:
throw in a black rhombus and
you get the end-scale of cubism,
like a single ****** contortion of
block-bulging triangle: a mixture of
them all: equilateral isosceles and scalene
(but not a pythagorean triangle in sight)
on the faces of les demoiselles d'avignon
(the young ladies of avignon) - ripped
off the page and given a whole new canvas.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 11:46 AM UTC
Am I not a fool for writing poetry
for the sake of writing poetry?
Am I to be rejected for using words
such as ennui?
Am I to be ****** for figurative language?
Or burned at the stake for
poising a period at the end of
a stream of
consciousness?
And yet my inner critic
yearns to yell
to scream
more words!
more passion!
I see their faces when
they look at me,
their empty eyes,
like corpses.
They believe morals
are paintings on
walls
and
scruples
are currency in Eastern Europe.
They do not know.
They do not drink
in the moments
that they cannot breathe.
They are silent tombstones.
Sinisterly and silently scorning Shakespeare
They trample over
Chaucer,
calling him dull.
And I too am seen as a
heretic.
for thinking of such
fantastical, whimsical
thoughts.
Was it ethical for Socrates to drink Hemlock?
Did they giggle like a couple of school girls
as he downed it like it was a
shot of whiskey?
And yet we heretics
are given the poison
of judgement everyday
swallowing the bitter cup
How much do I remember about not fitting in?
Is there reason to believe I ever will?
And yet faith has accepted the girl with
the curly hair.
Imagination
intuition
emotion
perception
reason
All qualities which
poetry blends into
passion.
For is not poetry
the expression of passion?
And yet this can be said of communication
in any way:
art
music,
writing
And yet you don't
see Romeo whispering
the Pythagorean Theorem
to Juliet on her balcony
No it lacks
sincerity
the Words are not his own.
No true poetry is the language
of the hidden soul,
the quintessence of life.
Yet another quote I will never be
quoted for is:
"Self education is better than none"
but that has nothing to do with poetry
except for how to write it.
And yes, I do enjoy
writing poetry.
and reading it too.
From Dante's inferno
to Poe's Raven
I have swam in the
channels of print
in everyone,
drowning in the words.
And yes, I do enjoy
being a heretic.
I may never stand in,
so all I can do is
Stand out.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 6:23 PM UTC
Sometimes I forget to look at the points in between my destinations.
So focused on point A and B that I ignore the beauty of the journey.
Pythagorean taught me that C^2= A^2 + B^2.
Leaving no point behind because you can’t be lead to one point without another.
Every moment matters.
Matter cannot be created nor destroyed,
Meaning that matter is always with you.
Embrace the in between as well as the destination.
Your destination will soon become a middle point.
Perspective is so key.
The key to unlock a narrow point of view.
Once that point was you.
Unlock your mind to see far beyond where your eyes can take you.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
*whatever we speak, it's hardly going to
be spoken of.*
which means two kettles...
mind you: target practise
or as i mind
the 2.4
of said: superman
in Iowa...
do i care to mind?
well, **** me!
they verse in acronym
i.n.d.i.a. & c.h.i.n.a.
akin to a billion...
i'm tongue tied and heaving,
das bōt...
this doesn't help the aesthetic...
with prolonging dies
the excess o...
kaiser schweizer min took!
whatever that means,
they say funny accents in ****
to **** a thought of a zeppelin...
yhwh: or the hollowing-out,
awaiting the god to lift us out...
Pythagorean umlaut
into a macron joinery...
depending on your aesthetic...
Kreisler schisser...
twins anti avid,
interchange s and z...
Charlotte
and sharpening, shearing and cheering,
and so many excuses...
the chard and the sh and the charcoal
and the shattering of, of the chatter:
cheap and sharp
or the acute variations of śarp & ćeap...
or what the first H represents:
an upper punctuation marking,
above the letter,
Y or gamma γ vs. Υ (upsilon)
in latter phrasing comma...
or what's pinpointed with Y
and what's later replicated in trigonometric W
of sine and cosine, as is Y the tan divergence...
excesses bound to later and latter...
how to differentiate? the lay'ter
from the latté of not mopping up the surd
h and the vocalised h that's asphyxiating
within catching breath asthmatic?
people forgot punctuation
in the same way they forgot diacritical markings
but at least they got a pretty picture
and dyslexia, and iconoclasm, and
modern illiteracy;
as said modern conspiracy theory:
far **** away from 1990s cartoon network...
everything you just said: doesn't
prop a need for me to buy things;
which is why, i guess, you need
a drugs trade that's the alternative
of consumerism.
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
poets were forever deemed the Peter Pans
of the adult world -
where once the sonnet reigned,
was sooner replaced succumbing to
gangrene by a Ferrari, or another polished diamond
of more diadem count in Pythagorean -
they really looked at poets like they murdered
the profession of accounting or plumbing...
god bless the poets, god bless the poet who
made it to a brothel... the only poets that escaped with Cain
and the murderers and the thieves, and the ******
i forgave my enemy to escape... let him earn
fireplace respect and custody of children should things
take a sour turn... only poets are welcome...
Jackie Chan, Billy the Kid and Dante...
**** you worship bound knights of auto-suggested
failures selling turnips and charcoal
writing poems like writing a signature in digital
imprint; they called us the children of
fervent art expressed -
a matchbox filled with huff-heaving-bollocks that was snarled-at
scratching the effortless geography of hind and
itch of the tabernacle to gallop toward a bloodless
Crusade - as Papa Urban promised unreal -
welcome the cocktail shakers of the crushed craniums
of Jerusalem's innocents - we come in
peace, come in the name of the un-spiced potato
gulags of the supposed stews of the many promises
the Pope twerked for granted in the raised *****
of the Ancient Mosque - **** praise be to Allah -
god / dog - but faithfully, anally yours...
**** a **** - nine dead, it's day-to-day Germany:
i like to dream... yes yes right between the sound machine...
you don't know what we can find...
why don't you tell your dreams to me...
close your eyes girl... papa fried Freud squirrel...
tripped on a white horse galloping standstill
in a 1sqm balcony - everyone swore it was Zorro....
but i corrected them, it was: Zoroaster (colon,
former fame for listings, otherwise the italics,
colon the synonymous variation of italics, pressurised
theatre pause - no listing).
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 11:38 PM UTC
i dont think about death much
but its really weird when i do
like your body turns cold
and the parts meant to move
they just stop moving
everything stops working
your lungs stop breathing
your blood stops flowing
its like your body gives up
i dont really understand why
but i dont understand a lot
why do english teachers
make me learn a language
ive spoken my entire life
and why do i need to know
the pythagorean theorm
why do i not know politics
but ive taken six years of art class
since when were self portraits
by seven year old art
why does the world rotate around the sun
and also around itself
but never around its moon
why doesnt the earth rotate around the moon
why are my nails shaped funny
different than most girls'
but i get told theyre pretty
since when was different pretty
and why dont i find different pretty
not pretty in the slightest
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC