Poetry

Eiffel I Long

Look at her sleek frame, the one you know,
the one who beckons you in May.
Full of sweet perfume, which sweeps down slow,
she tingles rose petals in childish play.

Glance upon her iron beams,
steps to her top enumerate,
while Paris daisies illuminate
and supple legs intoxicate.

Spirits of men incinerate,
ascending with creeds solemnly written.
The beacon, love-long, windswept but true —
soon lost and forgotten.

Faint from somewhere high,
her fleeting smile serene,
shedding hope for the possible,
a mystic hand stretched unseen.

I rise to rejuvenate,
stroll on your lawn till an hour late,
then sit as the skies brighten,
lay my head on your blanket green.

The Conversation

In a dimly lit restaurant nestled in the cobbled alleys of Zürich’s Niederdorf, ten of the world’s most eminent (and eccentrically over-dressed) mathematicians gathered around a table buckling under the weight of antipasti and wild gesticulation. Archimedes, having insisted on entering the premises wrapped only in a

Dare

Dare I dream of roses, a night sky passing proud, Orion and all his friends standing, in heaven’s dark blue, not loud— Like children we remember, the home from where we were, the rocket then we boarded— steel forged and smoothed our nerve. The first kiss, the awkward bumble,

Now to Our Own

We start with feet riding on a rubber floor, a moving carriage, scuffed by thousands of shoes, our reflections caught for a second in the glass. A middle-aged man stares at us, then sinks again as the train descends into the central tunnel; brushed steel and huddled shoulders carry

Nun zu den Unseren

Wir fahren, die Füsse auf dem Gummiboden, den tausend Schuhe blank und stumpf zugleich gerieben, im fahrenden Wagen, wo für einen Augenblick unsre Spiegelbilder an den Scheiben blieben. Ein Mann mittleren Alters sieht uns an, dann sinkt sein Blick zurück ins Ungewisse, während der Zug hinab in die Tunnel fährt;

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The Conversation

Dare

Now to Our Own

Nun zu den Unseren