<br/>Ode to Larry Marchesseau

Poetry

Some people might say that I am a rhymer rather than a poet. I have had the ability to make rhyming lines fairly easily, but I like to think that my poetry has more in it than just rhyme. I love imagery–the sights, sounds, smells, feels and movements of natural things, and I try to make my poetry very concrete and real. For some reason, funerals have been a very large part of my poetic efforts, I suppose because poems celebrate a life better than mere speech. At any rate, I have included some poetry here, and I hope you like it. As always, the subject matter is very diverse.

Here is a poem I wrote while Molly, my wife, was teaching calculus. Her students had told her that they did not understand poetry: that the subject matter was so obscure, meaningless, and irrelevant. She replied that poetry could be about anything. They rebutted by saying, “Right! I suppose you could write a poem about mathematics!” Taking the challenge, she said, “Yes, you could write a poem about math.” “Let us see one then,” they countered. Molly came home and told me the story. “Is there some way we can make a poem about math?” she queried. I said, “Well, if you will help me with the terminology, I will try.” Here is what we came up with.

TRIGONOMETRY
By Dan Spier

There is nothing in life so darn hectic
As a brain in a course trigonometric.
I had much rather study invasions
Of Vandals and Huns than equations.
And especially ones like quadratics!
They’re fit only for fools and fanatics!
While my social life sits and relaxes,
My dumb brain is a blur of Y-axes.
Even tangents and points of inflection,
Make me suffer a loss of direction.
While derivatives—both first and second,
Are a little bit more than I reckoned.
When old fractions turn inverse proportions,
My sinuses go through contortions.
My domain is as strange as an ocean,
And my slope and my range? I’ve no notion!
I think radians are tires for one’s auto,
And determinants words for one’s motto.
Logarithms sound right for percussion,
And matrices good for discussion.
But my function’s velocity’s dropping,
And I sense by acceleration stopping.
My vertex’s endpoint—it dangles,
As I’m swallowed in huge right triangles.
All my maximums minimum weakly,
As my anti-log poem ends bleakly,
I guess if one thinks perpendiculous,
Trigonometry’s not so ridiculous.

Ode to a man who was a friend I met through archery and black powder rifle hunting. He died tragically in a head-on crash near his home.

Ramrod tall and straight he stood
And drew his osage bow.
Back and back he stretched the string
Before he let it go.

With elbow high and anchor firm
He took his deadly aim
His flinty eyes would bore down-range
The ten-ring score to claim

Unleashed, the shaft of river cane
Tore through the morning mist
The turkey feathers spun the shaft
As toward the mark it hissed.

Fist-deep the arrow pierced the foam
Of artificial boar,
Or deer or turkey, wolf or bear,
As Larry upped the score.

We marveled as we watched him shoot--
Jeanine and all us guys--
And though Jeanine could beat us all
Old Larry “took the prize.”

I tried to make him laugh with jokes,
To get him off his game
But never once did laughter spoil
His focus or his aim.

The only thing you had to watch
When he was off your flank,
Was essence of those last night beans
That erupted loud and rank.

For Larry wasn’t squeamish
‘Bout lettin’ loose a poot,
You’d know if from the awful sound,
And smell it in your snoot!

We loved those tournaments we shot
Here, there, and everywhere.
Jeanine and Larry always called
To make sure we were there.

But now we gather here to say
Goodbye to our dear friend.
In this the very pasture
Where often we have been.

Right here Old Larry taught me how
To shoot my flintlock gun:
He showed me how to wad and prime
And fire—my God, what fun!

The deer and turkey still will come
To visit here this year.
They’ll feed and roost and carry on,
And then they’ll disappear.

Perhaps they wonder where the man
Who provided for their needs
Has gone, and if he ever knew
The impact of his deeds.

For Larry cared for all of us
In caring, gentle ways,
And grateful we will always be
For all our livelong days.

Goodbye, tall man with dancing eyes
And thirty-two tooth grin.
We’ll miss your throaty, deep-voiced laugh
And hairy, dark-tanned skin.

You are, no doubt, far better off
Than we who here remain
So raise a glass to our good health
Until we meet again.