Let X equal the quantity of all quantities of X
Let X equal your warmth. It burns
during the summer, when the sun
does not forgive or forget. The days
of warmth keep me cold. In heat we
rest ice cubes on our pulse points and
let it melt, cold as hot wax on skin.
Water drips from wrist to the inner
folds of our elbows, a river of veins.
And when the cube melts down, you
wipe your skin with a white washcloth
and soak the river up dry. But I
bathe and almost drown in the thaw.
And the washcloth turns red, like tongues.
But X is not infinite, so on the next line,
Let X equal the number of tongues
I chopped off to forgive and forget,
because your warmth does not thaw
and my arms now are rivers frozen.
This poem was inspired by a portion of David Auburn's play called Proof, which was made into a movie in 2005 starring Gwyneth Paltrow and my lover Jake Gyllenhaal. Part of the movie focuses on the dwindling mind of this old mathematician, whose genius is being replaced by his insanity. He starts writing what he thinks are mathematical proofs, but which are merely incoherent ramblings. When I read this however, I read it as poetry. I was moved by the sadness, the stillness, the freedom. And it's funny how I chose to limit my own version to the constraints of this original poem's form, when I initially admire it for its originality. I guess its simplicity and candor impressed me. There are no flowers, just the facts, just what is, and sometimes, that poetry is the hardest to write. This is the original:
Happy Poetry Thursday all. And Happy Holidays!Let X equal the quantity of all quantities of X. Let X equal the cold. It is cold in December. The months of cold equal November through February. There are four months of cold, and four of heat, leaving four months of indeterminate temperature. In February it snows. In March the Lake is a lake of ice. In September the students come back and the bookstores are full. Let X equal the month of full bookstores. The number of books approaches infinity as the number of months of cold approaches four. I will never be as cold now as I will in the future. The future of cold is infinite. The future of heat is the future of cold. The bookstores are infinite and so are never full except in September...
Labels: Poetry, Writing Prompts
