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Science News Poetry

If you have every waxed poetic about a proton or lyricized about a light wave, this forum is for you. Submit your verses on viruses or cosmic quatrains for our, um, enjoyment.

joy.you.to - 12:27pm Feb 14, 2001 EST (#291 of 295)

Thanks again for the advice

As you know I dont run to the papers
When Im pushed into a corner

I fight back
Its a mistake for people to underestimate me

The more im pushed the more I fight
Now Ive hedged my bets

I will say it again
ITS PRUDENT FOR THEM

TO LEAVE ME ALONE
TO ACT REAL SWEET AND STOP TALKING ABOUT KILLING ME!!!!

WHY You Ask?

Instead of 2 knowing now its 4
I will help the dumb jerks

In Florida in 2004
But I wont put up with abuse
Or being exploited

So if we dont want blood
Running in the streets

Oh I wrote that in CNN
Before, remember?

Blood running in the streets
That was when I was mad about the

Dead voters voting
Working as a election inspector......

Well now you all have made me
Mad so stop talking about killing me

If something happans now you will go down
Its documented and the right people knows

About it.....So back off.......
And I will just write about nice
science poetry.............

I dont want my pictures in the papers either....

rshowalter - 01:00pm Feb 14, 2001 EST (#292 of 295)
Robert Showalter showalte@macc.wisc.edu

This poem tells a story many people know, with background that can be checked, that provides one of the reasons why corresponding with me was, for a certain science oriented poet, doing her duty.

You're not dead yet ..... From DEAD POET'S SOCIETY #1738 ...... Guardian... the TALK

rshowalter - 01:24pm Feb 14, 2001 EST (#293 of 295)
Robert Showalter showalte@macc.wisc.edu

On an issue concerning reputation -- hers and mine.

When I asked to meet her, on any chaperoned terms possible, to talk, as a partner, she found it impossible, and did so, with the following poem, which she sent me several times, with discussion that made her meaning clear. The poem is

My Last Dutchess by Robert Browning , a poem of murder without qualm, by a jealous husband.

FERRARA.

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Fr Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
``Fr Pandolf'' by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Fr Pandolf chanced to say ``Her mantle laps
``Over my lady's wrist too much,'' or ``Paint
``Must never hope to reproduce the faint
``Half-flush that dies along her throat:'' such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart---how shall I say?---too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace---all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men,---good! but thanked
Somehow---I know not how---as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech---(which I have not)---to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, ``Just this
``Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
``Or there exceed the mark''---and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
---E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

*****

Sh

rshowalter - 01:25pm Feb 14, 2001 EST (#294 of 295)
Robert Showalter showalte@macc.wisc.edu

She sent me this poem more than once, making it clear the warning she was conveying, and the literalness of her fears.

Had it been otherwise, we might have been partners, with our romantic inclinations negotiated to a close. ( I say this, because it was how it was, partly to defend her honor, partly my own. )

Those who know this lady, how appropriate do you think it is, for her to have to live with such fears, and do her job, and be who she is?

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