With apologies to Allen Ginsberg
I
I saw the best minds of past generations destroyed by physics, tired, frustrated, delusional, dragging themselves through the European streets at dawn looking for a frame of reference,
Angel-headed scholars who offered astrological advice to the emperor and his ambitious brother,
Who, as master of the mint, sought to convict counterfeiters while unlocking the secrets of alchemy,
Who used mathematics to prove the existence of god, (while some of us believe it to have spawned from Satan),
Whose demon could compute the future of our universe without error,
Who were allowed to stay in France with an exemption from the decree,
Who invented work (for which we would never forgive him, but that he taught us billiards)
Who were knighted, and became president of the academy.
II
What sphinx of integrals and cross products bashed open their skulls and ate their brains and imagination?
Moloch! Torque! Resistance! Oscillation!
Moloch! Moloch! Gravity! Energy! Force, and the non-inertial frame of reference!
They broke their pencils calculating Moloch’s trajectory toward heaven!
III
Professor J.! I’m with you in Sanders,
Where you’re madder than I am
I’m with you in Sanders,
Where you tell us of spheres in which there is no gravity
I’m with you in Sanders,
Where you insist on the existence of a centrifugal force
I’m with you in Sanders,
Where you describe the motion of a double pendulum
Footnote:
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The physics is holy! The calculus is holy! The linear algebra is holy! Everything is holy!
Everybody’s holy!
Holy the pencils! Holy the paper! Holy the calculators! Holy the computers! Holy wikipedia! Holy integrals.com! Holy Kepler! Holy Newton! Holy Euler! Holy Laplace! Holy Lagrange! Holy Coriolis! Holy Hamilton! Holy the final exam!
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Sunday, December 21, 2008
The Darkest Evening of the Year
Whose room this is I think I know.
He's playing squash in Kenyon, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To tape this note upon his do'.
His roommate, Mo, must think it queer
For me to stop and tape this here
Between the quad and Sunset Lake
The halcyon times of freshman year.
He looks at me with double-take
To ask if there is some mistake.
I tell him not to make a peep.
It's all for Secret Santa's sake.
This room is festive, clean and deep,
But I have GPA to keep,
And papers to write before I sleep.
And papers to write before I sleep.
A year ago, today, I went to a sculpture I like called Return of the Sun, and took a picture of it (above) that can only be taken once a year. My tripod about a kadan longer than I would have preferred, but I'm still happy with how the picture came out.
Today, I went to Stonehenge. Apparently, the public transportation in London was not designed to get people to Stonehenge before sunrise, so I saw it at noon. I was impressed with the engineering. It was a long journey full of changing trains, spending money and walking, but I'm glad I went. It was a fun place to celebrate the days getting longer.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
The Reading Week Before Christmas, or Ode to the Double Red Bull
'Twas two weeks before Christmas, and the soon-to-be grads,
Spent long nights in Butler, all hopped-up on Adds,
With sour demeanors, their eyes bloodshot red,
As the finals and papers instilled in them dread.
The premeds made flash cards and memorized cancers,
While knocking back loads of performance enhancers.
And Scotty—the wanna-be music historian—
Who yearned once again to be valedictorian,
Had lain in his coffin-sized single in Wien,
When his heart went and failed him due to all the caffeine.
And those for whom studying seemed an awfully tall order
Got shrinks to sign off on their "learning disorder."
Amphetamines, stimulants, No-Doz and Coke®—
Stop reading! Start dosing! Your grades are no joke!
Two hours 'fore finals—you won't need study aids:
Drug use is the only guarantor of good grades.
And he who says "Learning's the thing" is a fool,
'Twas obsession with transcripts got us into this school!
And to think of the papers that I have been shirking,
(I was writing this poem when I should have been working),
Imparts to my soul such a terrible fright.
So, Good luck with your finals, and to all—sleepless nights!
---
Glossary for non-Columbians:
Butler: Humanities and history library; its reading rooms are open 24/7 and the place resembles a refugee camp during finals.
Wien Hall: Most maligned dorm at Columbia, home to roughly 300 juniors and sophomores, mainly consisting of singles that vaguely resemble prison cells (linoleum floors and sinks). An enduring campus myth states that the building housed inmates from the Bloomingdale Lunatic Asylum, which existed on the sight of present-day Columbia until the 1890s.
No-Doz: Name-brand caffeine pills available in most campus vending machines.
Spent long nights in Butler, all hopped-up on Adds,
With sour demeanors, their eyes bloodshot red,
As the finals and papers instilled in them dread.
The premeds made flash cards and memorized cancers,
While knocking back loads of performance enhancers.
And Scotty—the wanna-be music historian—
Who yearned once again to be valedictorian,
Had lain in his coffin-sized single in Wien,
When his heart went and failed him due to all the caffeine.
And those for whom studying seemed an awfully tall order
Got shrinks to sign off on their "learning disorder."
Amphetamines, stimulants, No-Doz and Coke®—
Stop reading! Start dosing! Your grades are no joke!
Two hours 'fore finals—you won't need study aids:
Drug use is the only guarantor of good grades.
And he who says "Learning's the thing" is a fool,
'Twas obsession with transcripts got us into this school!
And to think of the papers that I have been shirking,
(I was writing this poem when I should have been working),
Imparts to my soul such a terrible fright.
So, Good luck with your finals, and to all—sleepless nights!
---
Glossary for non-Columbians:
Butler: Humanities and history library; its reading rooms are open 24/7 and the place resembles a refugee camp during finals.
Wien Hall: Most maligned dorm at Columbia, home to roughly 300 juniors and sophomores, mainly consisting of singles that vaguely resemble prison cells (linoleum floors and sinks). An enduring campus myth states that the building housed inmates from the Bloomingdale Lunatic Asylum, which existed on the sight of present-day Columbia until the 1890s.
No-Doz: Name-brand caffeine pills available in most campus vending machines.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
The Binger
The Binger
(apologies to Edgar Allen Poe)
Last night, upon the Broadway dreary, I was stumbling, drunk and leery,
Seeking booze and easy women, but dorms and bars had closed their doors—
While I rested, idly crapping by some bum who had been napping,
I thought I heard a kegger happ’ning, happ’ning at the frat next door—
“Tis a sausage fest,” I muttered, gazing at the frat next door—
“Only dicks, and nothing more.”
Wand’ring on my lonely trek, I wiped my ass with nearby Spec,
And each separate party rumor brought my drunk ass to their door.
Sadly, all were out of mixers—and, with haste, so went the liquors—
So I did with a quick-fixer—fixed a NyQuil of shots four—
Ay, four shots of blue elixir—till I sputtered, “Please! No more!”
Then I woke up on the floor.
On the street, the night less younger, thereupon me came a hunger
For that yellowed, greasy slab of pizza, stuff of local lore.
So to Koronet, with haste, along the sidewalk there I raced,
Till the stinging bilious taste—waste from all those shots before—
Throat eruption, green and vile, belly drained and throat quite sore!
I then smelled Tom’s and puked some more.
Presently my head grew lighter, too weak, it seemed, for this all-nighter.
And as my liver plead in anguish that I not tax it anymore,
With my stomach, rotten, leaden, suff’ring gastric Armageddon,
And my horniness unsated, (unsated, still, for evermore),
I fell asleep and wondered whether there’d be dorm parties anymore?
Quoth the ResLife, “Nevermore.”
(apologies to Edgar Allen Poe)
Last night, upon the Broadway dreary, I was stumbling, drunk and leery,
Seeking booze and easy women, but dorms and bars had closed their doors—
While I rested, idly crapping by some bum who had been napping,
I thought I heard a kegger happ’ning, happ’ning at the frat next door—
“Tis a sausage fest,” I muttered, gazing at the frat next door—
“Only dicks, and nothing more.”
Wand’ring on my lonely trek, I wiped my ass with nearby Spec,
And each separate party rumor brought my drunk ass to their door.
Sadly, all were out of mixers—and, with haste, so went the liquors—
So I did with a quick-fixer—fixed a NyQuil of shots four—
Ay, four shots of blue elixir—till I sputtered, “Please! No more!”
Then I woke up on the floor.
On the street, the night less younger, thereupon me came a hunger
For that yellowed, greasy slab of pizza, stuff of local lore.
So to Koronet, with haste, along the sidewalk there I raced,
Till the stinging bilious taste—waste from all those shots before—
Throat eruption, green and vile, belly drained and throat quite sore!
I then smelled Tom’s and puked some more.
Presently my head grew lighter, too weak, it seemed, for this all-nighter.
And as my liver plead in anguish that I not tax it anymore,
With my stomach, rotten, leaden, suff’ring gastric Armageddon,
And my horniness unsated, (unsated, still, for evermore),
I fell asleep and wondered whether there’d be dorm parties anymore?
Quoth the ResLife, “Nevermore.”
Physics Poem α
My school has a semiannual party for all the physics students. It's quite a rager. We all go to the observatory dome, chat with professors, and read poems that we wrote about physics. This was my first. Freshman fall, I registered for a modern physics course, having no idea what I was getting myself into. I'd like to think that this poem describes the madness that ensued.
Newton was the physicist
Who wrote down the entire list
Of laws that govern we.
If once at rest
You'll stay unless
A force applies to thee.
Such force dictates
Accelerate
Inverse to mass. You see?
The force on you
Is equal to
The backwards one on me.
But these three rules
Just govern fools
Said Einstein once, with glee.
He ruined all of our good fun
And set to write step number one
Far from the apple tree.
"Half m v squared is hardly E.
It's gamma m times square of c.
Don't get me started on P."
Said Albert, then.
And who knows when
We'll understand his lunacy.
Newton was the physicist
Who wrote down the entire list
Of laws that govern we.
If once at rest
You'll stay unless
A force applies to thee.
Such force dictates
Accelerate
Inverse to mass. You see?
The force on you
Is equal to
The backwards one on me.
But these three rules
Just govern fools
Said Einstein once, with glee.
He ruined all of our good fun
And set to write step number one
Far from the apple tree.
"Half m v squared is hardly E.
It's gamma m times square of c.
Don't get me started on P."
Said Albert, then.
And who knows when
We'll understand his lunacy.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Ballad of the Desperate Procrastinator
I wonder if the internet
Will offer something new.
I haven’t seen it in five minutes.
Ten since I’ve seen you.
We talk for hours, though we know
We’ve heard it all before.
And when I next should study math,
I’ll hear it all once more.
Priorities have never been
A forte of yours or mine.
I’ve always been eluded by
The management of time.
Ironically, we talk about
The work that must be done.
You ask me how much I have started.
I reply with “none.”
Vodka, vodka, every where,
That would taste good I think;
Vodka, vodka, every where,
Nor any time to drink.
We sat down here at nine p.m.
And now it’s half past two.
I’d love to stay and chat with you,
But I’ve so much to do.
My bastard teacher only gave
A week to do this work.
I now must stay up all night long
Because he’s such a jerk.
Will offer something new.
I haven’t seen it in five minutes.
Ten since I’ve seen you.
We talk for hours, though we know
We’ve heard it all before.
And when I next should study math,
I’ll hear it all once more.
Priorities have never been
A forte of yours or mine.
I’ve always been eluded by
The management of time.
Ironically, we talk about
The work that must be done.
You ask me how much I have started.
I reply with “none.”
Vodka, vodka, every where,
That would taste good I think;
Vodka, vodka, every where,
Nor any time to drink.
We sat down here at nine p.m.
And now it’s half past two.
I’d love to stay and chat with you,
But I’ve so much to do.
My bastard teacher only gave
A week to do this work.
I now must stay up all night long
Because he’s such a jerk.
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