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Programming graphics in X is like finding the square root of PI using Roman numerals.

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The Square Root Of The Soul/Kvadratni Korjen Duse

The soul’s the square
The square with birds flying down on it
To take away the crumbs of its bread
The square with four corners
Each being turned towards
A stone token in its centre

The square the people keep coming to
To take away the words and their own faces
The square with four corners
Each being turned towards clock beat
In its centre

The square of its own forehead
The mandala of the palm of its hand
With an eye in every single corner
Silently measuring the unknown
The square root of the soul

Inspired by Carl Jung

Kvadratni korjen duše

Duša je kvadrat
Trg na koji slijecu ptice
I odnose mrve njenog hljeba
Kvadrat sa cetiri ugla okrenut
Ka kamen znamenu u njenom središtu

Trg na koji dolaze ljudi
I sa njega odnose rijeci i svoja lica
Sa cetiri ugla okrenut
Ka sat otkucaju njenog središta

Trg sopstvenog cela
Mandala svoga dlana
Sa po jednim okom u svakom uglu
Tiho odmjerava nesaznatljiv
Kvadratni korjen duše

Inspirisano Karlom Jungom

©Miroslava Odalovic

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Voyage around the Square Root of Minus One

I often heard
that while the sciences concern themselves
with objective truths
the arts deal with subjective phenomena.

Many years ago I held the same view,
but later came to the conclusion
that this is just a well-combed popular myth.

It is an untenable credo
because the sharp separation
of the arts and sciences is a rigid
and arbitrary mandate, full of holes.

Although all subjects have their specificities,
at the same time they also share
many common traits with each other.

There is art in science and science in art.

Artists, for example,
apply geometry to represent
a three dimensional scene in a painting,
which is a two dimensional surface.

By using ‘objective' geometrical perspective,
Renaissance artists, among them Alberti,
Brunelleschi, Uccello, Leonardo and Dürer,
developed in Europe the ‘subjective' illusion
of perceptual realism.

Later, in the Dutch Republic of the 17th century,
Johannes Vermeer applied expensive pigments
to the canvas and conducted
pioneering research in optics that enhanced
the supreme quality of his work,
imbuing his paintings with sublime,
otherworldly light.

In the 19th century
the Romantic painter John Constable
prepared detailed studies
of the landscape and weather conditions
of England, before transcribing them
into images of stunning accuracy and grace.

Following the closing of the Weimar Bauhaus
by the Nazis in 1933, the artist Josef Albers
moved to the USA, where he worked at
Black Mountain College and at Yale University.

Albers is credited with the discovery of
the gravitational laws of color interaction,
which he expressed in his minimalist paintings
of "Homage to the Square".

Yet painters are not the only artists
who use science in their work.
Writers and poets often incorporate
scientific themes into their novels and verse,
making more than once
important contributions
to the development of science.

A giant of German literature,
the poet, novelist and artist
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe was also
a pioneer of scientific phenomenology.
His myriad accomplishments encompassed
explorations in the metamorphosis of plants
and insects. Besides, his research interests
extended to geology and meteorology.

Moreover, in 1810 Goethe published
his "Theory of Colors", an influential opus
that inspired the painter J.M.W. Turner,
the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein,
as well as many others.
In many ways Goethe's color theory
remains valid even in the 21st century.

Shakespeare's work, too, may serve
to illustrate the links between art and science.
His plays are sprinkled with profound insights
regarding the psychodynamic processes
of the human mind and soul.
In the role of an early neuroscientist,
the bard can teach modern day physicians
a great deal about the mind-body connection,
about physical symptoms originating
in emotional disturbances.

Or take William Wordsworth.
This great Romantic English poet wrote
about nature and nurture,
"The child is father of the Man", he said,
a century before Freud formulated
his psychoanalytic theories.

And then, in a long prose poem,
titled "Eureka" and published in New York
in 1848, Edgar Allan Poe's gave expression
to his intuitive vision of the universe.
His work anticipated
cosmological discoveries
of the twentieth century.

Packed with bold conjectures,
the poet describes in "Eureka"
the concept that astronomers today call
Cosmological Black Hole.
Poe envisions here a pulsating universe,
evolving in an endless series
of Big Bangs and Big Crunches.

Now, let's bear in mind that
while science promises to provide us
thoroughly objective research products,
in the end it fails to deliver them.

Consider, for instance, the Queen of Sciences,
our most exact subject: Mathematics.
This powerful and noble discipline serves
as an indispensible tool for every branch
of science, as well as for common errands
that we carry out in all walks of life.

However, the astonishing success
of mathematics remains a baffling enigma.
For, how we can accomplish so much with it,
despite its inherent inconsistencies
and its uncertain relation to nature,
defies rational explanation.
Mathematical equations are embedded
with mysterious forces
and their uncanny power transcends
the cognitive faculties of the human mind.

A case in point concerns
a highly effective but bizarre
mathematical concept, the imaginary number
of the square root of minus one,
marked with the humble symbol, "i".

This number is a precise mathematical idea,
and at the same time a poetic celebration
of absurdity, because it hails from
a genderless state of an outlandish kingdom.
"i" is neither positive nor negative.
It exists in spite of itself,
percolating through the faulty filters
of remote stars of another galaxy.

And then there is the bizarre case of zero.
A central pillar of arithmetic, the naught
is a stringent figment of the imagination,
a number used as a symbol
of both nothing and infinity,
by which you can multiply,
however, never allowed to divide.

Now, a careful examination
of the pivotal hard core sciences
of physics and chemistry reveals
that their cardinal notions, such as:
space, time and matter, numbers,
molecules, atoms and particles,
with their quantum probabilities,
are actually elusive figures of speech,
sophisticated abstract metaphors.

Consequently, physicists and chemists
don't really understand their subject matter,
although many of them pretend
that they do.

Mind you,
the sciences are not superior
to music, poetry or painting.
Their epistemological status is equal.

For, the creative genius of Archimedes
does not surpass that of Homer;
nor do the swings of Galileo's pendulum
controvert the rhythm of iambic pentameters
on Dante's keyboard.

Similarly, the shining jewels of
Euler's magnificent mathematical equations
are not more brilliant, or more meaningful
than the triumphant melodies
of Vivaldi's masterpiece, "The Four Seasons".

Nor does the aesthetic splendor
of Cantor's transfinite sets
eclipse the majestic beauty
of Mozart's symphonies.

The earth revolves around the sun
surrounded by inexhaustible mysteries.
Still, Newton's infinite abstract space
is no closer to reality
than the adjacent concrete sky of Rembrandt.

And thus, in the final analysis,
Einstein's glorious Theory of Relativity
does not reveal more ultimate truths
about the transcendental cosmos
than the paintings of Picasso's universe.

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Emily Dickinson

Like her the Saints retire

60

Like her the Saints retire,
In their Chapeaux of fire,
Martial as she!

Like her the Evenings steal
Purple and Cochineal
After the Day!

"Departed"—both&mdash ;they say!
i.e. gathered away,
Not found,

Argues the Aster still—
Reasons the Daffodil
Profound!

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It ain't like in the movies at all

and it ain't the way one writes
even if he's not been there
and it ain ;) t the way one hopes
naive as he's not been there
and it ain: (t the way one thinks
'cause he's never seen
bird watchers watch the prey move stealthily
just to turn it into an ngo
no lol no it ain :) t like in the movies at all


©Miroslava Odalović

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I Feel Like Billy the Kid

I feel like Billy the Kid,
I broke the law, but can't remember what I did,
So I'm hiding in a hole in the wall,
There's so many laws,
I can't remember them all.

And there's a lawman on my trail,
He's going to have to kill me,
Cos I ain't going to jail,
Tell my Mama, I won't be coming home,
When you lay low, you got to lay low alone.

And I feel like Billy the Kid,
I broke the law, but can't remember what I did.

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Are You Like All the Rest?

Are You Like All the Rest?
Are you like all the rest?
Just want to use me for sex?
I’m just tired of it,
So just go beat on your chest.
I will not waste my time,
I have better things to do then hear you whine.
Don’t tell me you want to be my Valentine…
O.K I’ll try you out for fun,
Don’t think you’re the only one.

Written by Christina Sunrise on September 6,2011
www.purplepoems.com www.christinasunrise.com

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Sonnet LVII: Like As the Lute

Like as the lute that joys or else dislikes
As in his art that plays upon the same,
So sounds my Muse according as she strikes
On my heart strings high tun'd unto her fame.
Her touch doth cause the warble of the sound
Which here I yield in lamentable wise,
A wailing descant on the sweetest ground,
Whose due reports give honor to her eyes.
Else harsh my style, untunable my Muse,
Hoarse sounds the voice that praiseth not her name;
If any pleasing relish here I use,
Then judge the world her beauty gives the same.
O happy ground that makes the music such,
And blessed hand that gives so sweet a touch.

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William Shakespeare

Sonnet 60: Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,
Crookèd eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth despite his cruel hand.

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Sonnet XXXII: Like as the Spotless Ermelin

To M. P.

Like as the spotless Ermelin distress'd,
Circumpass'd round with filth and loathsome mud,
Pines in her grief, imprison'd in her nest,
And cannot issue forth to seek her good,
So I environ'd with a hateful want
Look to the heav'ns, the heav'ns yield forth no grace;
I search the earth, the earth I find as scant;
I view my self, my self in woeful case.
Heav'n nor earth will not, my self cannot work
A way through want to free my soul from care;
But I must pine, and in my pining lurk,
Lest my sad looks bewray me how I fare.
My fortune mantled with a cloud s'obscure
Thus shades my life so long as wants endure.

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Finding The Lost

Finding the lost; the lost is definitely in sight. Ignoring the right will always be wrong, and the right you doubt will always be wrong.
• Wishing for the right will not get you anywhere; you have to do it yourself. Don't be afraid to ask for help.
• Catching fire is not very smart; avoiding it, well, it makes a little more sense. Don't take my word for it, just follow your heart.
• Classical music is not just for listening; it does way much more than that. Your intelligence level gets higher, and helps you to sleep.
The wisest decision is always right, even if it may seem not. Come close to the beast, and you'll get roasted hot.

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Church & The Perfect Fit

Too loose.Too long.Too short.Too big.Too small.
Describes most of the clothes we wear.
Like finding the right church that's the perfect fit
Is always a struggle of hope, patience and prayer.

God wants us to fit together with one another
With our beliefs, attitudes, patriotism and love.
No church is perfect cause their run by men
As we assemble our souls to praise Heaven above.

David wrote; 'I Know O Lord Your judgement is right'
For he was aware of what happens when we stray
It helps us maintain our moral servitude
When we gather at church, sing, worship and pray.

Christ takes each sin, each pain, each loss,
So that our lives exalt His name.
And by the power of His sacrifice upon the cross
He transforms our brokeness, weakness and shame.

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Just Like All The Rest.

Just like all the rest, oh girl what have you been through. How can you say such things when you don't know. Hasn't he told you. I'm a train wreck. A man looking for a little substance in my life. And again you say like all the rest. Girl you must be so blessed to say that to me. For i know what i need and so must you. Cataclysmic was the time when we met. I was weak, so were you. I was looking for somebody. So were you. Still i hear you say just like all the rest. I must confess. When worlds collide. And tears fall that we try to hide. Always the better person. So rehearsed. So well versed. I can say just like all the rest. You left in such a mess. And you will still never know. You got to give someone a chance before you just let go. Just like all the rest are words i shall never forget.

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Like to the Clear in Highest Sphere

Like to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame colour is her hair,
Whether unfolded or in twines:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Refining heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Ph{oe}bus' smiling looks doth grace:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Her lips are like two budded roses,
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within which bounds she balm encloses,
Apt to entice a deity:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.

Her neck, like to a stately tower
Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Her paps are centres of delight,
Her paps are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where Nature moulds the dew of light,
To feed perfection with the same:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.

With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Nature herself her shape admires,
The gods are wounded in her sight,
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosalind,
Since for her fair there is fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Heigh ho, my heart, would God that she were mine!

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Rosalind: Like to the Clear in Highest Sphere

1 Like to the clear in highest sphere
2 Where all imperial glory shines,
3 Of selfsame colour is her hair,
4 Whether unfolded or in twines:
5 Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
6 Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
7 Refining heaven by every wink;
8 The gods do fear whenas they glow,
9 And I do tremble when I think:
10 Heigh ho, would she were mine.

11 Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
12 That beautifies Aurora's face,
13 Or like the silver crimson shroud
14 That Ph{oe}bus' smiling looks doth grace:
15 Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
16 Her lips are like two budded roses,
17 Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
18 Within which bounds she balm encloses,
19 Apt to entice a deity:
20 Heigh ho, would she were mine.

21 Her neck, like to a stately tower
22 Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
23 To watch for glances every hour
24 From her divine and sacred eyes:
25 Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
26 Her paps are centres of delight,
27 Her paps are orbs of heavenly frame,
28 Where Nature moulds the dew of light,
29 To feed perfection with the same:
30 Heigh ho, would she were mine.

31 With orient pearl, with ruby red,
32 With marble white, with sapphire blue,
33 Her body every way is fed,
34 Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view:
35 Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
36 Nature herself her shape admires,
37 The gods are wounded in her sight,
38 And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
39 And at her eyes his brand doth light:
40 Heigh ho, would she were mine.

41 Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
42 The absence of fair Rosalind,
43 Since for her fair there is fairer none,
44 Nor for her virtues so divine:
45 Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
46 Heigh ho, my heart, would God that she were mine!

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Around the square

A shopping shark shimmers
In the city centre seize
Picking off the bargains
With a practised, fluid ease

Plastic card whispers
As designer bags fill
Parades her Prada handbag
Like a hunter with his kill

A Starbucks and a breather
On the corner of the square
Sips a skinny latte
And restyles a wayward hair

Then uncurls from her table
Like a languid, waking cat
Adjusts her perfect hemline
Shakes a sunbeam from her hat

So graceful on stilleto heels
She negotiates the square
The minnows part and shoal around
Parfum, lingers, on the air.

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The lovers-root is a white-flower

The month; does but shiver into joy,
With the tears of a snow-drop,
Little-bells, buoyant, green and cloy,
Ringing; beyond the hilltop.

The lovers-root is a white-flower
On Valentine's Day:
Thus it performs both sweet and sour
Piercing the walls; of shy Cathay.

Kisses: mingle, like woodbines...
As brown; blue jay's mêlée in the eaves...
They're limbs, entwined, like vines:
Need only, the wind, which cleaves.

Violets stir in her amethyst nap
She my oracle, my lover—sings
And awakens; from the frozen snap!
A mortal being, with; wings.

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Our Magical River

At the break of dawn we took a stroll
along the river of tears
It was a wild river, with a glittering current
To take away your fears

The river seems such a magical thing
With the forest set in it's front
Silver streams painted with variable flowers
It was like finding the treasure in a treasure hunt

As we walked beside the flowing river
It's ripples beckoned to us
Sparkling and shining, calling our names
With the sound of lust

Every river has it's beginning
But this one had no end
Merging together like long lost loves
as you come around the rivers bend

We stopped and stood
and stared in awe
At the beauty of the merging rivers
And the love for which we saw

Dianna Nally
and Debbie Wagoner
7/14/09

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The Square Root of Knowledge

Know ye now the fruits
of the Tree of Knowledge
of Good and Evil.


Illusionary good.
Imaginary evil.


Dreams poisoned by shame.
Hearts twisted by guilt.


Visions blinded and
voices muted.

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Adam and Eve are like imaginary numbers, like the square root of minus one... If you include it in your equation, you can calculate all manners of things, which cannot be imagined without it.

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On the square

My motorbike is at a garage for a service
and when I return from work
I cross the square
to catch a buss
in Paul Kruger street.

There are hawkers selling sweets,
fruit, newspapers
and food
and people
walking to and fro.

This afternoon he is
on holy ground
with a shouting bugle
that yells to people
not to give money
but their hearts to Jesus Christ.

I wonder what uncle Paul
would think
about the neat black preacher
who is standing right against him
and the group
that listens soberly

and see grey-blue doves
picking up crumbs of bread
and I am glad
to drive my motorbike tomorrow again.

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