Math intersects with Poetry

ReadWritePoem is prompting poems that incorporate mathematics.  The Velveteen Rabbi wrote a poem about Gematria.

Here’s a poem I wrote awhile back, but I haven’t had much luck submitting it places.  I think because it is a little bit strange.
11.27 does not equal 12

Geerally, I suport
The metic system.
My favoite calendar
somehat misleadingly

has been alled
a metri calendar.
eleven pint two seven

is signifiantly smaller
At firt I thought
I woud hardly miss

point seven three ouncs,
bu I do.
Ad while mathematically
it’s nce to know

metic six packs
are exctly equivalent
to two lier bottles,
to gt the extra

four pint three eight
I wod still prefer
my cola caned

11.27/12 = approx .94
433 = characters in ‘American’ poem
406 = characters in ‘Metric’ poem
406/433 = approx .94
So your lack of comprehension of the above poem is roughly equivalent to the loss of soda in the can.

More mathematical poems submitted for the ReadWritePoem prompt can be read here.

0 thoughts on “Math intersects with Poetry

  1. DL Emerick

    A is to B as she is to U.
    B is to B as ~B is ~ to B,
    or what’s a metaphor, daddy?

    A metaphor is a really big 4,
    with hyperdimensional extensions.

    I metaphor who was now a size 5.

    I once metaphor who had no likeness to anything.
    We called it nothing. It said, “Look’s who talking!!!”

    We looked at ourselves in a mirror.
    and noticed a slight resemblance,
    an analogy gone wrong, somehow,
    everything subtly reversed, displaced.

    We looked at ourselves on a live cam,
    and did not quite know who we were,
    for we can see no other side,
    its outside or backside, only inside;
    our profile to others is a fiction to us.

    Numbers hide behind words unsaid.
    Man measures everything by himself,
    and yet he can not measure nothing,
    his substance so vanishingly small.
    Zeno goes to Zero before God does.

  2. DL Emerick

    My better half,
    a non-dysfunctional superego,
    one I married to be wholly me —
    Surrogated Blanche pimps me:

    I never metaphor; I didn’t like.

    I never metaphor; I didn’t like hymn.

    Pathos is chthonic,
    just chthonic aftershock —
    Mud experiences nothing,
    mud expresses nothing,
    mud is on our feet,
    mud is in our mouth,
    mud is in our hands,
    we are mud;
    we are mud in the image of God,
    we throw mud,
    we throw dirt,
    we throw dirt in your eyes.

    Jesus did this; a blind man saw (again).

    Moral is as clear as mud:
    mud-wrestle muddy God;
    mud-pies, fight free-for-all!

    I mud a metonym to Hymn,
    but He doesn’t speak to me —
    Completed IDIOTs guide me,
    one foot-in-mouth after another,
    one small step at a steep time
    is a giant’s leap for man-climb:
    mastery learning beats paths
    in neurons trained to fire faster
    when seeing lights in neo-eyes,
    damming the riever’s undertows
    to grave damnation consigned;
    to mix, metaphor’s a cock’s tell.

    “How d’ya like Adam’s apples, Eve?”
    The evening and its mourning were a day
    to level and so to weep for what is plain.