Maths

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/* Bad poetry alert */

I hate maths it turns mind into brain
Intelligent thought lost like tears in the rain
Equations functions, graphs I’ve had enough,
If this is all there is to life then I give up.
I was not born for a life that means
I need to crunch numbers like machines
I spy a paradox! How about you?
How can a machine be alive too?
And that is exactly how I feel
With every equation I become less real.

Every X, every Y, I feel my heart flutter,
Oh god, who would have guessed? Death by Algebra!
Every point plotted produces pain I must hide
Every new question kills me from inside
Every new topic I die a little more
The amount of horror makes up for the gore

Maths is stupid maths is lame
Maths is death by another name
In maths death is a game, Just a statistic to take the blame.

Alex Herlihy – 2009

Spiral

thumb[1].pngWhenever he draws that spiral, everyone’s eyes glaze over; It’s obviously just another diversion. But there are three people in the room who notice that swirl, and four who understand it; The Riddler, the Politician, the Redhead and the Poet.

If the other eyes are glazing, then the enlightened four’s eye is the fire.
Like a fingerprint, this flame is unique for each of them.
The Riddler reflects knowledge, and reveals a candle.
It burns within wisdom, not without time.
The Politician captures ambitious modesty,
And sends a smile of realisation over his shoulder.
The Redhead blinks osmosis, green fire, blue smoke, red sky.
Both sub specie aeternitatis and ignorance lie in that eye.
But the Poet can’t know the fire in his eyes;
Mirrors and windows are someone else’s reflection.

He can only believe it is there,
and try to guess at its true nature.
People say he knows everything.
Yet they are foolish for thinking he knows anything.
The people who make such wild claims about “He”,
Should realise what a God that makes “Me”,
And retract the claim if they believe and fear Hell.
If they don’t? Their hypocrisy would have God as a mere poet regardless.

Of eternity, reality, infinity, God. The poet is not.
They are all reflections of a single eye’s idea.
Not his eye.
He can see another’s reflection, but never notice his own eye.

All four understand that spiral,
But only the Riddler, Politician, and Redhead notice it.
The Poet does not notice it. Why?
Because he can see it…

Alex Herlihy – 2009

Sailing

3275322890_54d4aae6b2_b[1].jpgI find it hard to ignore, out at sea
The amazing line at infinity
Dancing there, water dance, fields of blue, blue fields, symphony.
endless in all directions
always a line, flat, distinct, but attempts at focusing, always undefined, foggy, as the swell, rises and falls, man high swell, meter high swell.
Back to earth, the spray, sunburn, Australian cliffs and beaches and land. company mood shift. peaceful

The words I spoke in no way resembled the vivid, intense images floating through my mind, but I must have told a good story regardless; the two boys sat mesmerised before me, waiting with eager anticipation for the next chapter to arrive.

I have seen geometrical infinity
and I’m not merely espousing poetry.
I have stood and store out at that long colourless line,
where the sky meets the sea.
I’m still not being poetic.
For that is the definition of infinity
The long long long line,
where the sky meets the sea

Alex Herlihy – 2011