Maths Madness written by Rithika Nadipalli (and edited by Ishita Nadipalli)

Our opinions will never be maths,

they’ll always be odd and somewhat biased.

So, let’s stop ticking them all as facts.

Let’s spot and subtract some wrong ones.

 

Let’s face it, everything else is so subjective.

There’ll always be greys and that’s fine for me.

At least maths solutions are always objective,

If not nought, it’ll be one, it’s binary.

 

People often apply thoughts to real lives,

but this view is only half-true.

Facts of life can expire like pies,

but maths stays true, for every issue.

 

Though people preach they’re always straight,

in some contexts, they may not stack up.

Some people may just not relate,

but in all pages, maths problems add up.

 

Math’s textbook formats can vary.

Their pages can be A3 or A4,

but their sayings are always stationary.

We all know that 3 plus 1 is 4.

 

In this world, everything is mutating,

I always navigate an uneven grid.

It's mixed messages feel so grating.

At least maths is as lucid as liquid.

 

It’s awesome how maths never alters,

I can accept it without any falter.

Hello everyone and I hope you enjoyed this short poem about how reliable and rigorous maths is, and how it provides some security to those confused by a world with its dynamic and diverse politics, contexts, cultures, views and messages. 

I just want to give a big thank you to my awesome sister, Ishita for editing my poem. She helped me make this poem clean, concise, coherent and more celebratory of the fascinating field of Mathematics. 

In line 11, Ishita chose to compare 'facts of life' to 'expiring pies' in line, to highlight the SIGNIFICANT PI SIGN, I overlooked in my draft calculations. Without her additions of other symbols (e.g., pie signs), my poem would have been cluttered with redundant PLUSES and MINUSES. Plus, Ishita's line 11 describing how 'facts of life can expire like pies' is tastier, funnier and more fitting than my duller and more irrelevant line 14: 'fickle facts of life flapping like bats'.

Plus, in line 14, Ishita changed my redundant 'adding' verb with 'stacking' to describe people's arguments as NOT STACKING up instead of my cliched NOT ADDING UP. 'STACK UP' also avoids repeating line 16 where I state that maths problems 'ADD UP' in every media so I am grateful for her great suggestion. 

Thank you Ishita for your ingenious inputs :) You are one of the finest editors I can ask for and this poem would not be the same without your comical ideas :). You are such an awesome writer too, and I hope you get inspired to write some of your own poems someday. I for one would love to read them.

The Wonders of Worldless Weaving written by Rithika Nadipalli (and edited by Ishita Nadipalli)

I’m a weaver bird, who loves her crafts. 

In my nest of words, I script song drafts. 

I hear some tunes and hunt for meanings, 

my heart can flutter with full on feelings.

 

At times my mind and songs go wrong, 

I feel stressed, and sad and not so strong. 

I then leave behind my tangled nest, 

and fly away to some forest.

 

When soaring through the broad blue yonder, 

I no more brood on pointless ponders. 

Once I weave with wordless threads, 

my worries fade, and I feel refreshed.

 

Weaving waves of wordless wonders, 

washes away those needless words. 

How could a weaver screech or glower, 

when weaving frozen lakes and flowers?

 

My mind and heart harmonise when I sew. 

My creative juices just so freely flow. 

I can feel each texture, find each hue, 

and take my scenes at face value.

 

For they’ll always be still, and simple. 

Daisies stay daisies, on dresses or wimples. 

Why peck at flyaway thoughts with poor logic, 

when we can pin down sturdy fabrics?

 

When my thoughts just flit too much, 

and twist too quick for quills to touch, 

needles untwist and stitch those truths, 

till straightforward, and super smooth.

 

When my strange song ruffles my feathers, 

when with each edit, it won’t get better, 

I quickly quit, lay down my quill,

and stitch some frills, to feel tranquil.

 

I always suss what each thread says. 

No needless fuss, no mindless guess. 

Words can’t confuse these works of art, 

threads pause my mind and please my heart.

 

Weaving rests my battered throat. 

Rather than doubting what I wrote, 

I can run-stitch rainbows, through the sky, 

without asking how, what, where, why?

 

Once my mind is calm and clear, 

I flock back to my nest, with new ideas. 

Once it's combed, and shows no crease, 

I chirp with hope and inner peace. 

Hello readers.

Thank you for reading my poem, and I hope you enjoyed it. I got inspired to write my own poem from the perspective from an artistic Weaver Bird, after hearing Owl City's House Wren's song from his Cinematic album (about a happy house wren searching for a perfect summer home):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vuk3zJ3CVco

In my poem, my weaver bird usually chirps lovely lyrical songs in her nest of words. However, sometimes she feels flustered, her nest tangles up, and all her songs go wrong.

 

To unwind, she drops her quill, leaves her tangled nest and flies away. Once she lands in a restful place (e.g.,  mountain or new tree), she weaves pretty, peaceful 'wordless wonders', like 'frozen lakes and flowers'. While weaving, she smiles, feels serene and stimulated. 

My weaver bird always admires her awesome designs without analysing any confusing and controversial meanings, she hears in other songs. She loves how ‘straightforward’ threads speak for themselves. When weaving, she never once has to ‘untwist’ their secrets. Weaving helps her untwist, understand, and express any ‘flighty thoughts’ and ‘truths’ hovering in her mind.

Once she feels calm, she flocks back to her cleaner, newly combed nest of words, and feeling more motivated to chirp or hear new tunes again.

 

Thank you so much for all your edits Ishita. They bring so much clarity and colour to this poem.

 

For example, I love how you suggested ‘still’ instead of my unnatural 'concrete' adjective in line 21. Still transports readers into the 'still' woodlands, rather than a static and 'concrete' city. 

 

I also appreciate how you suggested I use daisies in line 22 to express how woven concepts always stay the same. whatever the context or clothing (e.g., dress, or wimple). Daisies also commemorate the classic, and cheery lazy daisy stitch, so I penned it into this poem. 

I also love how you suggested how some songs 'won’t get better with each edit’ in line 33, when I was struggling to rhyme line 33 with ‘feathers’. Thank you for your witty line Ishita.

Lastly, thank you Ishita for switching my uninspired 'sing' with the more birdlike 'chirp' in line 44. Now, every time I read line 44, I smile, and see a chirping, hopeful, and peaceful bird.

 

Thank you Ishita for bringing this forest and whimsical weaver bird to life. You shortened and corrected so many wordy lines, making the poem more fluid and natural, like a flowing lake. You are such a naturally talented writer Ishita, and I hope you get inspired to write your own poems soon. I for one look forward to reading them.

A Tailor's Joyful Days and Dreams

At last, my tailor stall shuts down.

Winnows flow through my home windows,

caressing my skin as I lounge.

Lost in drowsy moods, I dream;

of mirrors glimmering on Kurtas,

reflecting my guests' grateful beams,

stitching blouses with rousing flowers,

studding them with lambent gems.

My, how they'll shine in bridal showers!

 

Pleating saris on mannequins,

sipping cold fresh mango juice,

sun rays skimming on those sequins,

 

quilting my Kantha with Kurtas, and Saris,

bordering it with bright blue beads,

dreaming of each stains' histories:

 

Maybe a Rani dabbed her tears,

as a doe died near her palace walls.

Could this explain this kohl stain here?

Perhaps a Raja healed a hurt hare,

when strolling in the misty woods.

Could that explain that bloodstain there?,

 

I stroke my Kantha’s red cotton thread.

I beam at my joyful working days,

I hope I dream more dreams in bed.

Lady of Twillight weds her Duke of Daylight

I slouch on the bed, feeling bored and blue,

I had enough of this rubbish room.

If I did not suffer this hunger and flu,

I’d rush out of here right now.

 

Someone, please see my trembles and tears!

Please just let me leap out of here!

 

At once, I spot an indigo ringed cyan spot.

At last, something new popped up.

I squint to work out, what is this blot,

could they be paint blobs, text, or photo pixels?

 

Seriously, what are you showing me silly smidge?

Just fire me some facts or share me an image!

 

Are you whispering weird words?

Or calling me crude names in morse code?

Could they be buzzy flies, or cheesy bluebirds?

Or could it be a smea:::rrrrrrrr……, h-h-huuuh!…

 

At once, I shudder, and my breath goes halt

As my body blasts off to some vast black vault…..

 

I sigh, as I eye the Lady of Twilight.

Her midnight mane billows and flows so gracefully,

her face glows opaline, like lambent starlight,

her deep blue dress sweeps away my stress.

 

Suspended in a symphony of shooting stars,

I’d hate to return to roads blaring with diesel cars.

 

She ties a pearly veil behind her silver tiara,

and winds a cyan sash round her slender waist.

She blooms far fresher than earth’s every flower,

could this spellbinding blue-blood be a blushing bride?

 

This comely lady glides to the carmine globe of fire.

The Duke of Daylight awaits: her object of desire.

 

"oh gor-gor-geou..s go-de-de-desss", this bashful duke stutters

"your beau-beautyyy bewitches m-m-my min::::nd"

he stumbles and blushes,

"and I’m proud to call you mine sweet prince " the lady beams

 

as she swishes her gown and swirls around

I pray to stay here and never crash down…

 

Phew…, I pinwheel up to her heavenly pinnacle,

Calid carmines cool down to Cimmerian.

Oh, how those stars still twinkle, and my palms still tingle!

Thank goodness I did not yet crash!

 

We swing on the lady’s crystal chain,

feeling free from those piping hot flames.

 

"I don’t miss my burnished sun’s sunders and sears,

These gelid gusts sooth the cruel sun’s bruises".

"Your warm words brighten my night dear

now let's admire those crystal comets" 

 

we whoop at a cyan rocket bursting away from

stormy skies

we weep at white hot webs shocking a squid, as it

cries…. Ouch, ouch, owwwww, brrrrrrr….. Thud!

 

I wipe my moony eyes and thud back to bed.

I spy a peacock feather flicked with blue drops.

Though my blues have yellowed, and my flu has fled,

I miss the true-blue lovers and that vast black vault.

 

My Next Door North Indian Drummer.

Dear noisy neighbour drumming next door.

Why punch your drum with such madness and might?

Every morning you get me yawning.

Could your thumps be cheering or mourning?

 

Do your bongs summon sultry Bollywood songs?

Do they douse out Big Ben’s brash ding dongs?

Do your drumbeats ignite Punjab’s heat?

Do they drown down others’ chronic chatter?

 

Do you miss orisons ringing in temples?

Do you desire dancing to drums in Carnivals?

Could they clatter like chains grand elephants wear?

While here, chains constrain, and clamp them tight.

 

Do they rumble your room like Baba’s loud laughs? 

Do they accelerate to replicate a snakes’ hiss?

Do they mimic monsoon storms roaring endlessly?

Do they feel like fireworks bursting each Diwali?

 

Could you crave puris pounding in hot oil?

Or the popping poppadoms’ Nani fries for you?

While here, oven beeps signal soggy samosas.

They don’t crackle like her Punjab samosas.

 

Do you miss Baba’s aloo tikka, fresh from his tandoor?

It’s crisp singe, zingy lime and tangy chaat masala?

But these English chefs serve you pallid potato spuds.

Their sauces never sizzle, and sing to your tastebuds.

 

Perhaps your potent punches and pounds,

evoke papri chat’s crunches and sounds. 

Oh, your rhythms rouse and drum up a desire,

for spicy pani puri and sharp papri chat.

 

Let’s sip a lime soda and a mango lassi.

Let’s share your Punjab payasam, and my Andhra arisa,

I’ll strum my sitar with your drum’s bangs.

We’ll play away our bitter pangs.

 

Please tell me how bells tinkle from young brides’ trousseaus.

I’ll tell you when a buffalo bit my Tata’s crops.

We will not just survive but also truly thrive,

if we reveal our fancies, fears, and our childhood lives.

 

I can resonate with your unfair fate.

I miss Andhra’s sounds, smells, and sights,

but perhaps after our music and munches,

your fists can endure less bruises and crunches.

 

Our inner battles should not rattle our hearts.

Though English, Shakespeare sold me strong advice.

He said, if music be the language of love play on.

I say, “if food be the fuel of our friendship, eat up”.