The Philosophy of Math
BR
Belletryst is a gay writer and poet based in central Ohio. He has been
writing professionally for several years and has been published in
several online literary journals. He is currently attending Ohio
University as a full-time student, working hard toward his degree in
business and accounting. You can read more of his work at his blog, Firefly Chronicles.
This funny and insightful poem reveals a deeper understanding of math
than BR would like us to know he possesses. It also could be the
grown-up student's version of a certain poem about math by a certain
young writer known to you as Gianluca D'Elia. Enjoy this and be happy
there's life after math class!
The Philosophy of Math
By BR Belletryst
Is it the hour? The lack of clock,
that damn black mirror, or pandora's box?
I'm home. I'm dead. I'm a reflection
bled into the snowscape into
a primate, some hack,
preaching confusion to voices that
lack definition and properties
of maths, who don't question or ask.
Their heads might as well SMACK
into the table, that is by all means
more stable than they,
whom he prays give him hope:
"Someone, anyone, please tell me the slope."
Silence, more stillness,
no eyes in the room.
He laughs to himself that we
do not swoon at his lover,
understanding and logic,
that we wrinkle our noses,
and find her quite caustic.
Nine forty-five, and class is dismissed,
and while we're elated, the professor is pissed.
Another class, two and a half hours,
are these the ones who will house
all the power? Youth of the nation
what a joke, what a rip,
where the shit are we headed
with minds ill-equipped?
Teach, not to test,
test, not to grade,
it's all lost in the end,
teacher and students dismayed.
"What happened," he asks,
"to the attitude of the time?"
Disaffected, too apathetic,
with no reason or rhyme.
"Where's the inspiration, the rebellion
the passion? Postmodern
philosophies, consumerism and fashion
are new gods, hailed in with haste,
but where are the old, the decayed
with no taste?"
He nods to himself, a calculated thought;
Apathy is medicinal to the masses,
overwrought with these concerns,
changes and unknowings.
Easier to give up, to relinquish
the growing stress of attention,
to withhold retention,
to submit to a world
no struggle of comprehension.
Easy is desired, but what would Kant
say to the hedonists, to whom
delay is death, and ends misconceived?
"Oh humanity, my love, my bereaved."
Where ends seek ends, with disregard
for dimension, just line segments, is all,
"moral" isn't mentioned in the slightest,
or brought up, or taught.
Are we here to learn, or will our
lessons be forgot with our ends seeking
ends, not solutions, caught up in the petty,
the immediate, the now,
Will we own up to our shortcomings,
or will we disavow?
Professor's door shuts slowly, lights off,
day done. He goes home to sleep.
He'll start the day the same.
No change, no progress,
no irony, no pun.
Just more days, and more questions.
The Philosophy of Math
By BR Belletryst
Is it the hour? The lack of clock,
that damn black mirror, or pandora's box?
I'm home. I'm dead. I'm a reflection
bled into the snowscape into
a primate, some hack,
preaching confusion to voices that
lack definition and properties
of maths, who don't question or ask.
Their heads might as well SMACK
into the table, that is by all means
more stable than they,
whom he prays give him hope:
"Someone, anyone, please tell me the slope."
Silence, more stillness,
no eyes in the room.
He laughs to himself that we
do not swoon at his lover,
understanding and logic,
that we wrinkle our noses,
and find her quite caustic.
Nine forty-five, and class is dismissed,
and while we're elated, the professor is pissed.
Another class, two and a half hours,
are these the ones who will house
all the power? Youth of the nation
what a joke, what a rip,
where the shit are we headed
with minds ill-equipped?
Teach, not to test,
test, not to grade,
it's all lost in the end,
teacher and students dismayed.
"What happened," he asks,
"to the attitude of the time?"
Disaffected, too apathetic,
with no reason or rhyme.
"Where's the inspiration, the rebellion
the passion? Postmodern
philosophies, consumerism and fashion
are new gods, hailed in with haste,
but where are the old, the decayed
with no taste?"
He nods to himself, a calculated thought;
Apathy is medicinal to the masses,
overwrought with these concerns,
changes and unknowings.
Easier to give up, to relinquish
the growing stress of attention,
to withhold retention,
to submit to a world
no struggle of comprehension.
Easy is desired, but what would Kant
say to the hedonists, to whom
delay is death, and ends misconceived?
"Oh humanity, my love, my bereaved."
Where ends seek ends, with disregard
for dimension, just line segments, is all,
"moral" isn't mentioned in the slightest,
or brought up, or taught.
Are we here to learn, or will our
lessons be forgot with our ends seeking
ends, not solutions, caught up in the petty,
the immediate, the now,
Will we own up to our shortcomings,
or will we disavow?
Professor's door shuts slowly, lights off,
day done. He goes home to sleep.
He'll start the day the same.
No change, no progress,
no irony, no pun.
Just more days, and more questions.
Posted by Annmarie at 2/3/2010 11:27 PM 
Categories: words to linger on
Tags: disconnect students math professor BR Belletryst
Categories: words to linger on
Tags: disconnect students math professor BR Belletryst
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