Tag Archive for "poetry"
Geek Poem
I found this amazing programmer’s poem today and thought I’d share it. The idea is to read each character as it would be read if by a programmer. For example the character ‘<’ would be read as ‘Walla’, and “!” as Bang. See the translation below if you have no idea what I’m talking about.
The text of the poem follows:
<>!*''#
^"`$$-
!*=@$_
%*<>~#4
&[]../
|{,,SYSTEM HALTED
The poem can only be appreciated by reading
it aloud, to wit:
Waka waka bang splat tick tick hash,
Caret quote back-tick dollar dollar dash,
Bang splat equal at dollar under-score,
Percent splat waka waka tilde number four,
Ampersand bracket bracket dot dot slash,
Vertical-bar curly-bracket comma comma
CRASH.
SOURCE: INFOCUS magazine. Original authors, Fred Bremmer and Steve Kroese of Calvin College & Seminary of Grand Rapids, MI. [pligg]
Numerical Poetics
I was exploring some old hard drives that I had been saving, thinking they had fallen victim to the dreaded “grinding death”. Upon plugging them in after over 3 years of being stored in an electrostatic bag in my closet, the damned thing booted up no problems. I had enough time to recover some lost lyrics/poetry. Here is a random file from the collection I restored.
SYN /ACK
5/22/2006: 10:50 PM
We will often dive off to see,
knowing quite well, knowing you quite well the peril.
A signature of Constantine instantly erased,
An arms race for bombs made of silver and gold,
It’s almost a shame your wore it… so long.
You forgot to recharge.
Is a bullet worth the sense or the cents.
Is it negative intent to prevent,
Who is to blame?
Who is to repent?
Still we’re creating massive kingdoms afire,
with selfish amazment regarding the food chain.
We love to image we’ve made of ourselves,
We hate to know our graves are 14 days old.
You are on your way for a better existence.
Encryption crumbles revealing fatal source code unethical to public eyes.
Displayed for a short while: the downfall of a comprimised consciousness.
I hear it pays well! But, it’s not the first time we’ve heard this tune.
The anger to the ends.
But what actually ends?
East of East
This is the first song I ever wrote for thatwasthen… still carries weight.
EAST OF EAST
Well she went back east
Boarded a train
Said she wanted to see the country
Stood on the rocky coast
Stood on the tallest tower
But it wasn’t enough,
So she cried, “Mom!”
She said
IF I CAN’T BE ME
WHERE WILL I BE?
IF I CAN’T BE ME
HOW WILL I SEE?
Moved further east
Settled down in a flat in Brixton
And started work on her first novel
She took a look left and right
Took walks at night
Kept to herself and never asked for help
She’d stay inside with all her papers and lines
They’d say
IF I CAN’T BE ME
WHERE WILL I BE?
IF I CAN’T BE ME
HOW WILL I SEE?
Then she,
Moved further east to find inner peace
Checked her possessions and weapons
Then set her lessons down at the door
And she sat in silence
Cleared her head
Had the epiphany of a lifetime
What she wanted wasn’t what she’d got
She wanted everything, but had learned to live with nothing
“Well I guess I’ll go back West”
But west was so far west
That it’d be best reached
If she just kept on going east
I DIDN’T SEE
I RAN AWAY FROM ME
HOW WILL IT BE
TO FINALLY BE FREE?
the art of losing
This is a poem that has kept me alive for longer than I care to remember…
ONE ART
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
–Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
~Elizabeth Bishop
My music is coming with me
when i die
my poems, words
they will come with me
when i cry
my mother, god
they come and lift me
when i sigh
my girl, world
have come and kissed me
my music’s coming with me
i can write it into existence
i can make it vanish in a snap
i can twist it, bend it, lift, suspend it
mend it, send it back
when i long
then my stars
make it so
when ‘im wrong
then it’s ours
this ancient poem
if i’m strong
in the hour
of the great unknown
then my music will come with me
i can write it into existence
i can make it vanish in a snap
i can twist it, bend it, lift, suspend it
mend it, send it back
© Brenton Sinay 2008
It Is ALL Poetry
Poetry is everywhere. We can make poetry of things that are already there. We can take what we have, and just rearrange it to make it poetic. Just know that the circumstances of your life are poetic, you just need to arrange them in such a way.
If anyone can do this, I’ll just cry with astonishment and pride! See if you can rearrange one of MY poems…
A DIAMOND OR A BOAT
a diamond or boat
that was the question
to entertain the argument
was never my intention
the diamond it seems
has remarkable glare
though maybe more glam
than its miner’s fared
but what of a yacht
with motors abuzz
a thousand photographs
and chasing the sun
well if the ice caps melt
as they say when it gets hotter
then who needs land, hands down
the earth is mostly water!
so if ever prompted proudly pronounce
between the diamond or boat
the rays of god, through gems may bounce
but i’ve never seen a diamond float
Hope and Fear
the sky is falling
the world is ending
the time is nigh
there are two kinds of people in the world.
those who will destroy that which they believe will soon be destroyed anyway,
and those who preserve, because they have hope for a future.
which of the two are you?
which of the two do you want to be?
is your nature destructive,
or must you see and observe for yourself?
hope can destroy, though not for anyone else but who has it.
a martyrdom, you choose, with hope
for your disappointments from hope are your own,
and you must bear the pain alone.
the destroyers, they share it all…
their pain, their frustration
their greed and selfishness
with everyone who has to live in their wake…
but hey, do they know any better?
they believe there is no tomorrow.
Thoughts on Budget Cuts
Ah, September. Time of dying trees, mysteriously persistent heat, and uhh….there was something else I forgot…
Oh, yeah. School.
So I’m back at the good old University of California Los Angeles and there’s lots of fun to be had all around. Unless you’re a teacher, or an administrator. I dunno if you’ve heard, but our state is run by The Governator. And he doesn’t believe in giving money to support education.
You know, the last thread that keeps our society from ripping itself apart. No big deal.
Anyhow, in my first class, English 4W, we were discussing this same issue. The professor passed around a copy of an e-mail that I will reproduce for you here. All the identifying information was removed.
“I am aware that some of you have received notice about a walkout planned for Thursday, September 24, the first day of classes. I am sympathetic with the feelings of frustration that many faculty members have with respect to the furlough program [in which teachers are forced to take days off without pay]. Nevertheless, I must remind everyone that the beginning of the quarter is an important day for our students, many of whom are concerned about their enrollment status in their classes. Accordingly, it is my responsibility to inform you that we expect all Thursday classes and sections to meet as scheduled.”
We discussed this e-mail in depth…the speaker’s choice of words, his/her formality and apparent dismissive attitude. To me it was a futile sort of vibe. But it’s only their “responsibility” to inform us…they “must remind us.” So I guess you can’t fully blame them. In the last 5 minutes our professor asked us to write a poem about what we felt about the e-mail…it was one of those strange moments where thoughts pour out as if from a dam exploded.
It’s not much, but I thought I’d share it:
Futility is easy
when you’re straddled at the top
between mute responsibility
and something you must stop.
But when the bullshit hits the fan
who’s to say what’s right or wrong?
Who’s to see through ambiguities
and actually get things done?
The answer’s lying suffocated,
tied in thick red tape–
the victim just a student
who never wanted to escape.
–nicky p–
