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Best Famous Math Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Math poems. This is a select list of the best famous Math poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Math poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of math poems.

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Written by Joseph Brodsky | Create an image from this poem

I Sit By The Window

 I said fate plays a game without a score,
and who needs fish if you've got caviar?
The triumph of the Gothic style would come to pass
and turn you on--no need for coke, or grass.
I sit by the window.
Outside, an aspen.
When I loved, I loved deeply.
It wasn't often.
I said the forest's only part of a tree.
Who needs the whole girl if you've got her knee? Sick of the dust raised by the modern era, the Russian eye would rest on an Estonian spire.
I sit by the window.
The dishes are done.
I was happy here.
But I won't be again.
I wrote: The bulb looks at the flower in fear, and love, as an act, lacks a verb; the zer- o Euclid thought the vanishing point became wasn't math--it was the nothingness of Time.
I sit by the window.
And while I sit my youth comes back.
Sometimes I'd smile.
Or spit.
I said that the leaf may destory the bud; what's fertile falls in fallow soil--a dud; that on the flat field, the unshadowed plain nature spills the seeds of trees in vain.
I sit by the window.
Hands lock my knees.
My heavy shadow's my squat company.
My song was out of tune, my voice was cracked, but at least no chorus can ever sing it back.
That talk like this reaps no reward bewilders no one--no one's legs rest on my sholders.
I sit by the window in the dark.
Like an express, the waves behind the wavelike curtain crash.
A loyal subject of these second-rate years, I proudly admit that my finest ideas are second-rate, and may the future take them as trophies of my struggle against suffocation.
I sit in the dark.
And it would be hard to figure out which is worse; the dark inside, or the darkness out.


Written by Audre Lorde | Create an image from this poem

Hanging Fire

 I am fourteen
and my skin has betrayed me
the boy I cannot live without 
still sucks his tumb 
in secret
how come my knees are 
always so ashy
what if I die
before the morning comes
and momma's in the bedroom
with the door closed.
I have to learn how to dance in time for the next party my room is too small for me suppose I de before graduation they will sing sad melodies but finally tell the truth aout me There is nothing I want to do and too much that has to be done and momma's in the bedroom with the door closed.
Nobody even stops to think about my side of it I should have been on Math Team my marks were better than his why do I have to be the one wearing braces I have nothing to wear tomorrow will I live long enough to grow up and momma's in the bedroom with the door closed.
Written by Robert Graves | Create an image from this poem

Letter to S.S. from Mametz Wood

 I never dreamed we’d meet that day 
In our old haunts down Fricourt way, 
Plotting such marvellous journeys there 
For jolly old “Apr?s-la-guerre.
” Well, when it’s over, first we’ll meet At Gweithdy Bach, my country seat In Wales, a curious little shop With two rooms and a roof on top, A sort of Morlancourt-ish billet That never needs a crowd to fill it.
But oh, the country round about! The sort of view that makes you shout For want of any better way Of praising God: there’s a blue bay Shining in front, and on the right Snowden and Hebog capped with white, And lots of other jolly peaks That you could wonder at for weeks, With jag and spur and hump and cleft.
There’s a grey castle on the left, And back in the high Hinterland You’ll see the grave of Shawn Knarlbrand, Who slew the savage Buffaloon By the Nant-col one night in June, And won his surname from the horn Of this prodigious unicorn.
Beyond, where the two Rhinogs tower, Rhinog Fach and Rhinog Fawr, Close there after a four years’ chase From Thessaly and the woods of Thrace, The beaten Dog-cat stood at bay And growled and fought and passed away.
You’ll see where mountain conies grapple With prayer and creed in their rock chapel Which Ben and Claire once built for them; They call it S?ar Bethlehem.
You’ll see where in old Roman days, Before Revivals changed our ways, The Virgin ’scaped the Devil’s grab, Printing her foot on a stone slab With five clear toe-marks; and you’ll find The fiendish thumbprint close behind.
You’ll see where Math, Mathonwy’s son, Spoke with the wizard Gwydion And bad him from South Wales set out To steal that creature with the snout, That new-discovered grunting beast Divinely flavoured for the feast.
No traveller yet has hit upon A wilder land than Meirion, For desolate hills and tumbling stones, Bogland and melody and old bones.
Fairies and ghosts are here galore, And poetry most splendid, more Than can be written with the pen Or understood by common men.
In Gweithdy Bach we’ll rest awhile, We’ll dress our wounds and learn to smile With easier lips; we’ll stretch our legs, And live on bilberry tart and eggs, And store up solar energy, Basking in sunshine by the sea, Until we feel a match once more For anything but another war.
So then we’ll kiss our families, And sail across the seas (The God of Song protecting us) To the great hills of Caucasus.
Robert will learn the local bat For billeting and things like that, If Siegfried learns the piccolo To charm the people as we go.
The jolly peasants clad in furs Will greet the Welch-ski officers With open arms, and ere we pass Will make us vocal with Kavasse.
In old Bagdad we’ll call a halt At the S?shuns’ ancestral vault; We’ll catch the Persian rose-flowers’ scent, And understand what Omar meant.
Bitlis and Mush will know our faces, Tiflis and Tomsk, and all such places.
Perhaps eventually we’ll get Among the Tartars of Thibet.
Hobnobbing with the Chungs and Mings, And doing wild, tremendous things In free adventure, quest and fight, And God! what poetry we’ll write!
Written by Charles Webb | Create an image from this poem

The Wife of the Mind

 Sharecroppers' child, she was more schooled
In slaughtering pigs and coaxing corn out of
The ground than in the laws of Math, the rules
Of Grammar.
Seventeen, she fell in love With the senior quarterback, and nearly Married him, but—the wedding just a week Away—drove her trousseau back to Penney's, Then drove on past sagging fences, flooding creeks, And country bars to huge Washington State, Where, feeling like a hick, she studied French to compensate.
She graduated middle-of-her-class, Managed a Senior Center while she flailed Away at an M.
A.
, from the morass Of which a poet/rock-singer from Yale Plucked her.
He loved her practicality; She adored his brilliance.
Sex was great.
They married in a civil ceremony.
He played around, for which she berated Herself, telling friends things were "hunky-dory.
" Resentment grew.
.
.
oh, you said "life"? That's another story.
Written by Maggie Estep | Create an image from this poem

Scab Maids On Speed

 My first job was when I was about 15.
I had met a girl named Hope who became my best friend.
Hope and I were flunking math class so we became speed freaks.
This honed our algebra skills and we quickly became whiz kids.
For about 5 minutes.
Then, our brains started to fry and we were just teenage speed freaks.
Then, we decided to to seek gainful employment.
We got hired on as part time maids at the Holiday Inn while a maid strike was happening.
We were scab maids on speed and we were coming to clean your room.
We were subsequently fired for pilfering a Holiday Inn guest's quaalude stash which we did only because we never thought someone would have the nerve to call the front desk and say; THE MAIDS STOLE MY LUUDES MAN.
But someone did - or so we surmised - because we were fired.
I supppose maybe we were fired because we never actually CLEANED but rather just turned on the vacuum so it SOUNDED like we were cleaning as we picked the pubic hairs off the sheets and out of the tub then passed out on the bed and caught up on the sleep we'd missed from being up all night speeding.
When we got fired, we became waitresses at an International House of Pancakes.
We were much happier there.

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