first time I have written a poem that was not compulsorary
comments? suggestions? abuse?
The mathematician
The mathematician, sitting in his cramped and smoky cellar,
puts the final touches to his masterpiece
and sits back to admire the new life he has just given birth to.
From the humble beginnings of "let x ="
it wove a tale of the rise and fall of the lypernov functions
better that any epic homer could have produced,
a frustrated love between markov matrices and cabali-yau geometry
that would put shakespere to shame
and, finally rising to a immutable crescendo with the last, simple line
so inbuilt with symmetry and style,
a masterpiece that none could rival.
When this theory emerged, full-born from the womb of the mind,
the mathematician could not be prouder of the vast potential this work, his protege,
to be quoted in every journal of mathematics for time immemorial,
to achieve the immortality of ideas, information, rather that flesh.
By chance or ill luck,no one will know
the work was presented in all of its glory to a group of doddering, senile scientists
smelling faintly of tweed and overused blackboard.
Like savages, they attacked his work with unprecedented brutality,
cruelly dissecting his functions,
ripping away at his equations,
until there was nothing left, but a scarred, imperfect, cripple
forever doomed to live his in the draconian imprisonment of reality
where mathematics had escaped from oh so many centuries ago.
The mathematician could nothing but sit idly by,
wincing as they reduced each of his beautifully crafted statements into common facts and figures
and when the scientists had finished raping his work,
creating the bastard son that stood before him this day,
they turned it over to the engineers,
to talk about feasibility, costs, and structural integrity
seeing even the sleek, precise lines being turned into error bars and probabilities,
this was the final insult for the mathematician,
to see his masterpiece turned into a machine,
something made of mere dirt and metals rather that the beautiful spires of the mind.
"a brilliant space drive was announced today,
a device that will open up a new era of human history"
the mathematician made a silent note to himself
that when it was time to apply for another grant,
he must be sure that it was on a topic that would be a great deal less useful.
comments? suggestions? abuse?
The mathematician
The mathematician, sitting in his cramped and smoky cellar,
puts the final touches to his masterpiece
and sits back to admire the new life he has just given birth to.
From the humble beginnings of "let x ="
it wove a tale of the rise and fall of the lypernov functions
better that any epic homer could have produced,
a frustrated love between markov matrices and cabali-yau geometry
that would put shakespere to shame
and, finally rising to a immutable crescendo with the last, simple line
so inbuilt with symmetry and style,
a masterpiece that none could rival.
When this theory emerged, full-born from the womb of the mind,
the mathematician could not be prouder of the vast potential this work, his protege,
to be quoted in every journal of mathematics for time immemorial,
to achieve the immortality of ideas, information, rather that flesh.
By chance or ill luck,no one will know
the work was presented in all of its glory to a group of doddering, senile scientists
smelling faintly of tweed and overused blackboard.
Like savages, they attacked his work with unprecedented brutality,
cruelly dissecting his functions,
ripping away at his equations,
until there was nothing left, but a scarred, imperfect, cripple
forever doomed to live his in the draconian imprisonment of reality
where mathematics had escaped from oh so many centuries ago.
The mathematician could nothing but sit idly by,
wincing as they reduced each of his beautifully crafted statements into common facts and figures
and when the scientists had finished raping his work,
creating the bastard son that stood before him this day,
they turned it over to the engineers,
to talk about feasibility, costs, and structural integrity
seeing even the sleek, precise lines being turned into error bars and probabilities,
this was the final insult for the mathematician,
to see his masterpiece turned into a machine,
something made of mere dirt and metals rather that the beautiful spires of the mind.
"a brilliant space drive was announced today,
a device that will open up a new era of human history"
the mathematician made a silent note to himself
that when it was time to apply for another grant,
he must be sure that it was on a topic that would be a great deal less useful.
???????????????? This is a poem?????????????
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