Best Calculation Poems
I lay in your hands
like coins
jiggling before a
fountain toss.
“What is your worth?”
you ask.
Without asking.
You weigh up the risk;
mull me over in your mind.
Extrapolate the terms
for the term of usefulness.
“What is your worth?”
you ask.
Without asking.
Your eyes calculate
the circumference of my waist
the bounce of my breast
the pout of my lip
the thrust of my hip
Calibrate my voice
Weigh up your choice
For there are suitable dimensions –
one must be sure.
“What is your worth?”
I wish you’d asked me
asking also.
I could have reciprocated
this mental melee;
measured your manliness
deconstructed your youness.
I could have righted your formula
for wear and tear –
incorporated Newton’s clause
for relativity of ownership.
“What is your worth?”
you ask,
in breathy whispers.
I can barely make it out
thus I carry on
shrug it off
for you would have asked.
And time moves on
Like a season
Like a snail
Like something slow and natural
And it moves in
and it moves through
and between
the me and you.
And I try to recall
that whisper.
“What is your worth?”
you ask me
so finally.
But I do not grasp
the accumulation of this question
the anguish it’s piled
the anger it’s amassed
I do not see
the mechanics behind the math
or the permanent berth
where it’s docked for years
I do not understand
the infinity of the solution
or the ever-changing variables
which infest your weary mind.
“What is your worth?”
Had you but asked me first
Granted me insult
Homoured me with worthlessness
Given me the freeing power –
of derision under your division
And if asking then
I’d have have answer, once only;
that the question
makes me worth the more.
“What is your worth?”
Beg – ask no more.
Please, ask no more.
A French party primary vote cast doubt
On whether the organisers could count.
Shares of the vote were shown
Before the turn-out was known,
Which is proof of a mathematical rout.
And of that not a shadow of doubt !
(No fake news here. Refers to the presidential primary, first round, by France’s Parti Socialist on January 20. Run off on Jan. 27)
In the land of math, where numbers reign,
There lies a fiendish beast, a source of pain.
Calculus, its name, a demon of the mind,
Differential equations, its minions unkind.
The first derivative, it twists and turns,
My brain in knots, my stomach churns.
I integrate, I differentiate,
But my body aches, my mind can’t concentrate.
My pencil snaps, my eraser’s worn,
My textbook’s pages, they’re all forlorn.
I try to solve, I try to learn,
But all I get is a headache, a burn.
The second derivative, it’s worse than before,
My body’s sore, I can’t take it no more.
I try to graph, I try to plot,
But all I see is a tangled knot.
The Laplace transform, it haunts my dreams,
My mind in shambles, it rips at the seams.
I try to solve, I try to compute,
But all I get is a headache, a hoot.
The partial derivative, it makes no sense,
My body’s tense, my nerves are dense.
I try to solve, I try to think,
But all I get is a headache, a brink.
The limit, it’s my mortal foe,
My mind in agony, it’s all aglow.
I try to solve, I try to think,
But all I get is a headache, a brink.
The differential equation, it’s a beast,
My mind in torment, it’s all deceased.
I try to solve, I try to learn,
But all I get is a headache, a burn.
In the land of math, where numbers reign,
I fight the beast, I try to maintain.
But calculus, it’s a force to behold,
A source of laughter, a tale to be told.
From the 10 digits 0 to 9
Numerous numbers are formed
Showing man's talent in calculation
These digits and numbers
Are then being widely used in
Gambling
Wealth estimation
Time calculation
Science and Mathematics
Leading to civilization and greed
But finally greed dominates civilization
And rules man's heart and soul
Making him a slave of
Merely 10 small and insignificant digits
Smart calculation
Of the evolution
One who is fit
Will then defeat
One who is smart
Will then outsmart
To the one unhealthy
No chance of worthy
To be in the world
Not strong enough
To take the position
In survival effort.
Rohan Dhabade