Three — Poetry — Dan Spier

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.

The little hop and swinging cloak
Round the school hall got me first.
The broad-brimmed hat and girlish smile
Slaked my sentimental thirst.
Who was this jolly, well-dressed marm
Coming to school so late?
Where had she been since eight o’clock
And why this jolly gait?
Did she somehow know of me?
Was this a gentle flirt?
Or was she just a happy lass
In lovely wool plaid skirt?
Some years have passed from that fine day
Miss Moseley sauntered in
And struck a nerve in this old boy
And what a ride it’s been!
He married her, that lady coy
And shocked the entire school.
Miss Molly and the football coach
The entire town did fool!
Their married years are thirty-eight
In June of twenty-two
And every day they laugh and play
Enjoying love so true.
And now we come to celebrate
The birth of Molly sweet
She will have reached to seventy-five
A truly awesome feat.
Three-quarters of a century
Have passed since she arrived
And she has conquered many goals
Her aspirations thrived.
She mastered academics
In overwhelming rate
And taught her students flawlessly
As their triumphs indicate.
Her knitting and her needlepoint
Are treasures to behold.
And working on them every day—
It never gets too old.
But most of all she takes good care
Of crotchety old Dan
Her loving, faithful husband
Her one and only man.
And so, just like the players
When that third quarter ends,
We raise four fingers in the air
To demonstrate this way
That we wish a rich fourth quarter
For Molly May this day.

Dan Spier 2022