The Complexity of Ordinary Subjects By Brooke Hassan
“Pure mathematics is, in its way, the poetry of logical ideas.” –Albert Einstein
Math Math is the equation, The formula, The triangle, The reasoning. It’s the complexity for that which We cannot understand. A long theorem of Rays and angles And 2x + 4= 90 And log 2 8= 3 Though logical, It is a belief, A theory, A lifestyle. It is both God’s work of art For which He Named “Life” And a representation Of the capacity of the Human mind. It breathes wisdom And truth, But more importantly, It embodies Faith and beauty.
“Now you’ve said it. The hopeless emptiness. Hell, plenty of people are on to the emptiness part; out where I used to work, on the Coast, that’s all we ever talked about. We’d sit around talking about emptiness all night. Nobody ever said ‘hopeless,’ though; that’s where we’d chicken out. Because maybe it does take a certain amount of guts to see the emptiness, but it takes a whole hell of a lot more to see the hopelessness. And I guess when you do see the hopelessness, that’s when there’s nothing to do but take off. If you can.” -Richard Yates, Revolutionary Road
The Window The foggy glass hides the world outside The cold, wet residue on the window remains. I use my finger to trace my name, Leaving the window messy and abnormal. I sit on the windowsill trying to look through The glass of the window The ice makes my whole body freeze The tension builds until My heart cannot feel anymore. I walk away, Leaving the ice the grazes the window, Whose breath does not call out any longer.
"An artist should create beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. We live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of autobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty." -Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
The Poem The poem is an act of drama, A reflection of meaning, Something that is hidden Beneath the surface. The art of the poem Relies in the beauty While the meaning crawls Below, shriveled and lonely. The evaluative reader tries To destroy the beauty Of the poem and evaluate it. The love for language is ripped Away while the message Is left lingering Awkwardly, unprotected. Naked and inartistic, The poem is left with nothing.
“My task which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word, to make you hear, to make you feel — it is, before all, to make you see. That — and no more, and it is everything. If I succeed, you shall find there according to your deserts: encouragement, consolation, fear, charm — all you demand; and, perhaps, also that glimpse of truth for which you have forgotten to ask.” -Joseph Conrad, The Nigger of the Narcissus and the Secret Sharer
The Pen You uncover the wisdom That I read on the page The ink that loves the taste of words The words that express meaning and thought The beauty you create The symbolism you inspire You lead the way into A new era of creativity You find peace in times of destruction And closure in times of sorrow A fixture of broken glass A quilt of empathy Your existence has spread thought into our minds And life into the world
“My idea is always to reach my generation. The wise writer writes for the youth of his own generation, the critics of the next, and the schoolmasters of ever afterward.” –F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Book The wrinkled pages Are soaked in stories That live within each word, Marveling at the thin writing That stains the paper The crisp smell, Sprinkled along each page The thick, leather cover Keeping everything together The rough edges Worn out and dirty The book is left alone, Unmoved, untouched.