Math Sonnet Poems | Examples
These Math Sonnet poems are examples of Sonnet poems about Math. These are the best examples of Sonnet Math poems written by international poets.
José! Your mind of lofty, lucid flow,
Reputed justly for its logic strong;
In every case, the course correct to know;
But then that day, your plan, it was quite wrong.
Full well you knew an idle pawn is vain;
You knew, and surely others must have told,
A knight in distant corner keeps no gain;
But knowing that, the fatal plan took hold.
Too wandering way, too puttering on the path;
Too little eye toward the gathering storm;
Too little care to cold and crushing math;
And so a spirit sank to Soviet form.
An hour or two upon that game you spent,
By which a light on all of life was lent.
Tearing down the illusions of falsehoods,
My footsteps march forward towards fullness.
The skies seem so obscure beyond the woods;
Afar, the light of love looks luminous.
Trails that were trodden once are now traceless;
I have to toil to till and find my path.
So-journers and wayfarers seem faceless;
My logic lags beyond all human math.
Fields and farmlands are deserted and dry;
Wells I dig within do not quench my thirst.
I stand amidst slippery sands and cry:
Might the journeys stalled in mud be reversed?
When pathless paths attain their cosmic goal,
Does Brahman wake, or blind, the dreaming soul?
When lofty pride corrupts a beautiful mind,
when egotism infects the freshman's brain,
the genius who was the meek, lowly kind,
transforms into a dangerous, mad strain.
The brilliant brainiac who has turned vain,
the Putnam Fellow whose profoundest math,
and theorems caused his rivals so much pain,
precariously embarks on a Faustian path.
But life bathes us all in its humble bath,
and brings us back to a less sinful state,
which turns away the heavenly, sore wrath
of God and thus redeems our earthly fate.
If haughtiness keeps us from the more straight
and narrow, then patiently grace will wait.
A bard born to a muse is full of song,
for he imbibes on the milk of her breasts,
a suckling babe that's inspired 'ere too long,
to pen refrains, lines, and this sonnet no less.
When inspired, songs of bravery are plentiful;
and words of chivalry gallop on page
like gallant knights to damsels most beautiful:
to him, Poesy never knew a greater age!
But bards worth their weight in gold soon realize,
that one must learn how to be their own muse,
for the muse can choose to not exercise
her power (and what choice have we if she refuse?).
Like the primes, the muse leaves and disappears,
as the bard's years increase past life's hemispheres.
Then shall I say I could no other do?
That fate beyond divine compelled my act?
That like a bird on wires my mission flew?
But that's a game of words, and not of fact.
Full well I knew how best to calm my mind,
From huddled suffering to avert my eyes;
To on Olympus joy and music find;
To drink ambrosia where but pleasure lies.
But one must do one's math across the all,
To give one's scope of thought a greater room;
And even as a god, my part was small:
'Twas choice, and not a fate, that sealed my doom.
And if the cost has been both life and soul,
The gift has value far above its toll.
He visited Simon's mother-in-law, who had a fever.
Did he do so because she was kin of his disciple?
The elderly needed care. He knew this as a healer.
Wasn't their psyche more than their physique what made them ill?
A lesion in reason and logic rots the mind, like rust.
Depression, delirium, dementia, and rifts in moods
Loss of autonomy, grief, loneliness, and lack of trust
Optimism fades like a waning moon, and pessimism broods.
He knew these puddled muddles. Was he a psychoanalyst?
How was he able to read each mind like a telepath?
Wasn't he, for-bye, a universal philanthropist?
Was he not the zenith of extraterrestrial math?
Innocence, like crystal clear streams, flooded from his person.
Wasn't he, after all, the Almighty God's precious son?
Another revolution 'round the sun:
the plans are laid, the resolutions penned.
This is the year at last to be the one:
lose weight, exercise more, curtail the spend.
Then life, it seems, jumps up, gets in the way:
the unexpected call from a dear friend.
Your planner list can wait another day,
for it was just a minder in the end.
The days then turn to weeks before you know,
and now you’re so far off the beaten path,
the goal you set not very long ago:
completely hopeless, when you do the math.
It catches you off guard, and you’ve begun
another revolution 'round the sun.
—————
for the Orphan Sonnet Poetry Contest
sponsored by Emile Pinet
written on 05/01/2022
“Is 'Mathematics...not only [a] Truth,
but [a] supreme beauty—a beauty cold
and austere, like that of sculpture [uncouth
to men for whom this concept is too bold],
without appeal to any part of our weaker nature,
without the gorgeous trappings of painting
or music, yet [is still more] sublimely pure,
and capable of a stern [un-feinting]
perfection such as only the greatest art
can show?'” So, thus geometrized Euclid
(to Russell's youthful mind and fervent heart),
and taught,—by a draped, stone caryatid
at the Library of Alexandria;
from whence “The Elements” spread without lemma!
Thank you, Mr. Rogers (yes, his real name!)
for rescuing me from teenage purgatory.
Perplexed teenager, lacking social lumen
pulled C's in English, D's in History -
my dreadful retrograde trajectory
projected no collegiate acumen,
in prom discussions, practically subhuman!
Then, your poetical geometry
and sleek Cartesian choreography
became my sailing ship, and I, its crewman.
Derivatives soon danced in arcs non-static.
Pythagorean proofs helped me progress,
vectors resolved problems that once would vex.
Your agile algebra of joy quadratic:
my new hypotenuse of happiness
helped me to find myself... I solved for x.
Written 13 March 2020
Most people will assume a girl can cook,
but men can make great chefs, while there are girls
who never at a cookbook took a look!
And some won’t wear a dress or fancy pearls.
We look at men and think ones super tall
are good at basketball. It might not be!
A girl is small. She can’t play sports at all?
Some girls love math! Some guys love poetry!
Old ways of thinking sometimes can be wrong.
We can’t assume a thing. Some girls today
are showing in the sport they love they’re strong!
HE wants to be a nurse; that makes him gay??
If you are good at it and love it too,
you’re equal to it, and it’s right for YOU.
Feb 9, 2020 for Kai Michael Neumann's "Gender Equality" Contest
What is Beauty? Is it Truth? Is it Art?
Or the shape of the Golden Ratio?
Whatsoever Beauty is, it does not show
in the proud and haughty, but in the heart
of them where love and charity take part;
it manifests in the wise, who all know
that hatred's a fault we must overthrow
to supersede with the logic of Descartes.
Behold! Beauty's what's perceived in the eyes,
where the light of grace and intelligence
mingles in proportions none can surmise.
Beauty is song, from whence comes the eloquence
of a bard, who, like a lark at sunrise,
with lips sings strains that rival spring's opulence.
Of my 36 halves: The latter, spent
accruing 2 subtracted former halves,
is 9, if equal parts divided mint
2 quarters passed 1 – done (tequila math).
Those under 18 have no place in this.
I was 19 when I first learned to drink.
Keystone my freshman year; soph’moric Schlitz.
2 Jager bombed thirsts forced a senior’s shrink.
That 25 uncorked a loveless wine
meant 29 bed wedded Chuckie Cheese.
30 went sober with vows on the line,
so - it's been over the last 6 of these.
What all it equates to? 1 sweet tasty thought:
Deep swallows of Brandy (candied apricot).
One plus one plus one does not equal two
For me it adds up to heartache and tears
What's going to happen to me and you
If the third one should suddenly appear
I was not very good in math at school
I'm certain the math teacher would agree
The numbers don't add up, but I'm a fool
For thinking the answer is two not three
Tell me what I'm supposed to tell my heart
When it finds out and one heart becomes two
The heartache will surely break it apart
Then the tears will come from me and not you
Sometimes equations look easy at first
And if you add too quickly you'll get hurt
an original poem by the Poemdog Daniel Turner