Are Women People?

I went into a factory
to earn my daily bread:
Men said: “The home is woman’s sphere.”
“I have no home,” I said.

But when the men all marched to war,
they cried to wife and maid,
“Oh, never mind about the home,
but save the export trade.”

For it’s women this and women that, and home’s the place for you,
But it’s patriotic angels when there’s outside work to do,
There’s outside work to do, my dears, there’s outside work to do,
It’s patriotic angels when there’s outside work to do.

Read the rest of it, and more poetry of the Women’s Suffrage Movement, at The Hairpin. Link -via Metafilter

What a fun idea! Neatoramanaut Anton Hecht shot this clever video where words are spelled with shoelaces:

This was made with dance students from Newcastle College and filmed in Central arcade in Newcastle Uk. The writting is a homage to [the poet Charles Bukowski] about how small things can cause us great harm. Thanks to Busker Bill who played behind us. The shoelace design was Mick Davies and Catherin Dufton helped put the moves together.

Hit play or go to Link [YouTube] - Thanks Anton!

A year ago, we told you about artist John Morse and his Roadside Haiku project in Atlanta. Now his talents have been commissioned for traffic signs in New York City! The New York City Department of Transportation has installed a collection of curbside signs written in haiku along with graphics designed by John Morse. The seventeen-syllable poetry warns drivers, pedestrians, and bikers to watch for safety hazards. Some also have QR codes. See more of them at core77. Link -via Metafilter

by Meg Muckenhoupt, Lexington, Massachusetts, USA
Illustrations by Gavin Schnitzler, Tufts University School of Medicine, Boston, Massachusetts, USA

On a hot night in August, while strolling in Prague,
Horton the elephant peered through the fog
With his portable telescope tied on a string
He looked at the heavens and spotted… a thing!

So Horton stopped walking and stared at the spot.
“That’s funny,” thought Horton, “It was there, now it’s not.”
Then he saw it again! Just a faint bit of fuzz
He certainly thought it wasn’t there—but it was!
“I’ll name it!” said Horton, “But what is it? Where?”
He looked and he looked. He could see nothing there
But small speck of ice floating far past the air.

“I say!” murmured Horton. “Stuff my trunk in a sock!
I’ve spotted a terribly far-away rock!
So you know what I think? I think that there must
Be a splendid new name for this lump of star-dust.
Even though it is quite a diminutive size,
Too small to be seen by an elephant’s eyes…

But it looks very spherical, round at the girth,
Just like the planets Mars, Venus, and Earth
I’ll just have to name it. Because, after all,
A planet’s a planet no matter how small.”

“Humpf!” humphed a voice. ‘Twas a sour old sloth
Who cleared his thick head with a very slow cough.
“Why, that speck is as small as the head of a pin!
A planet that small? There never has been!”

The planets and that thing are just not the same!
They don’t occupy the same orbital plane!
That thing’s not a planet—not even a dwarf.
It’s an asteroid merely, for all that that’s worth.”

She ended the sentence at twenty past one,
Exactly five hours since she had begun.
But Horton was patient, and waited to say
Why he thought this very new planet should stay.

“Believe me,” said Horton. “I tell you sincerely,
My eyes are quite keen and I saw it quite clearly.
I know it’s a planet out there. And, what’s more,
Quite likely there’s two. Even three. Even four.
Quite likely we’ll find five or six dozen more.

It’s a new planet family for all that we know!
A classification just starting to grow.
So, please,” Horton said, “as a favor to me,
Try not to reclassify. Just let it be.”

“I think you’re a fool!” laughed the sour old sloth.
“It can’t be a planet! Enough is enough!
A cantaloupe’s spherical! So is a hog!”
And she blew a great breath towards poor Horton near Prague.

The fog closed in over the elephant’s head.
He peered through his telescope, trembling with dread.
The sloth’s exhalation had stirred up some smoke
And a billion dust particles made Horton choke.

“I’ll find it!” cried Horton. “I’ll find it or bust!
I SHALL find my planet behind all this dust!”
And object, by object, by object with care
He searched through the heavens and called, “Are you there?”

And on through the night, and while greatly annoyed,
‘Til he found it at last! (With a few asteroids.)
“My planet!” cried Horton. “Tell me! Do tell!
Are you flat? Are you round? Is your orbit quite well?

“O planet! O planet!” he begged, “please be bright!
You’ve got to be more than a rock in the night!
So please get reflective! Get big, bright and shiny!
You’re very important! So what if you’re tiny?
If you can’t show you’re bright and not just itty-bitty,
You’ll be named by the Small-Not-A-Planet Committee!”

Then it happened. The Thing shone quite bright, and quite clear,
And the rock’s surface gleamed with the words, “I AM HERE.”

And those words…
That small sentence made all the sloths see
The planet still mattered, although it was wee.
Finally, at last! From that speck in the sky
The planet was seen! By every eye.

And Horton just smiled. “Do you see after all?
It’s proved it’s a planet, no matter how small.”
“How true! Yes, how true,” said the sloth, “oh, how true!
And, from now on, you know what I’m planning to do?
From here on, I’ll always observe it with you!
My Real Planet Committee will meet in the fall,
and we’ll name all the planets, no matter how small.”

“Call it Pluto,” said Horton, “The best one of all!”

_____________________

This article is republished with permission from the September-October 2009 issue of the Annals of Improbable Research. You can download or purchase back issues of the magazine, or subscribe to receive future issues. Or get a subscription for someone as a gift!

Visit their website for more research that makes people LAUGH and then THINK.

Male and female fruit flies. Drawing by Nan Swift, Improbable Research staff, in homage to T.H. Morgan.

This poem is reprinted from the science humor magazine Annals of Improbable Research.

Another in an endless series of poems evolved from E.A. Poe’s original

by Jennifer Sosnowski
University of Virginia, Charlottesville

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
O’er the latest volume of some scientific lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping at my lab’ratory door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my office door;
Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
Each lab’ratory member left some data on my door.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for my low grant score
For the lab that sought to study Docking Protein v-SNARE-4;
Penniless forevermore.

I felt I would remember later strange sounds from each incubator
Oh, they filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my office door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my office door.
This it is, and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating, then, no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or madam, your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my lab’ratory door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you.” Here I opened wide the door—.
Darkness there, and nothing more

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wond’ring, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams that no P.I. had dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only words there spoken were the whispered words, “Low score?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the words, “Low score!”
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into my office turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,
“Surely,” I said, “surely, that is someone with word of the status
Of the Golgi apparatus that my grant would fain explore.
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.
‘Tis the heating, nothing more.”

Fruit fly eyes. Drawing by Nan Swift, Improbable Research staff, in homage to T.H. Morgan.

I scarce had time all this to mutter, when, with quite a flirt and flutter,
In did zoom a tiny fruit fly, one of Barry’s stocks galore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
With a presence calm and staid, he perched above my office door.
Perched upon a bust of Darwin, just above my office door.
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this little insect brought some cheerful sparkle to my thought
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thine eyes be red as cherries, surely now thy genome varies.
I’ll bet thou art not wild-type, small one; could you be what I’ve prayed for?
Tell me of thy genotype, named by Barry heretofore.”
Quoth the fruit fly, “Nevermore.”

I wondered and I marveled, merely just to hear it speak so clearly,
As my hopes were raised that I could write my grant once more.
I let myself begin believing—by its genotype perceiving,
Could I finally start achieving fame that I was destined for?
I searched PubMed and rustled through the papers stuffed into my drawer
For a fly named “Nevermore.”

But the fruit fly, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further, then, he uttered; not a wingtip did he flutter;
As I dug through all my clutter, piles of papers on the floor.
I despaired and said “It’s hopeless – like my dreams I dreamed before.”
Then the fly said, “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it says is only what it’s heard before,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, ‘til his budget was no more—
‘Til the ruins of his research dashed his hopes upon the floor.
His iv’ry tower was no more.”

But the fruit fly still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of fly and bust and door;
Then, upon the canvas sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this fly knew of my score,
What this tiny insect who begot so much genetic lore
Meant in croaking, “Nevermore.”

Thus I sat engaged in guessing, finding this a bit distressing,
Whilst I watched those cherry eyes stare down into my deep heart’s core;
So I sat there, sat there pining with florescent light bulbs shining
How low were my hopes declining! This was grant revision four…
I’d be my resignation signing since my grant they did abhor.
Twill ne’er be funded, nevermore!

Three varieties of fruit flies. Drawing by Nan Swift, Improbable Research staff, in homage to T.H. Morgan.

Then, methought, the air grew colder, and I saw an old file folder
Pull itself out of a stack, and fall upon the dirty floor.
“Wretch,” I cried out, “Who hath sent thee?  Gene transfection tests have lent thee
Powers that thy kith and kin have not possessed before!
Come and join my lab and let’s your genotype explore!”
Quoth the fruit fly, “Nevermore!”

“Prophet!” said I, “Thing of evil!—prophet still, if fly or weevil!
Whether you were sent or fled a keen insectivore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, my grant sits here quite unwanted
In this lab by horror haunted? Tell me truly, I implore!
Is there funding for my lab? Tell me, tell me! I implore!”
Quoth the fruit fly, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil—prophet still, if fly or weevil!
By that heaven that’s above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell me—Oh, my heart is chilled!—Now tell me: Will my grant be killed,
My fondest dream go unfulfilled, undone by just a lowly score?
Will I not a full lab build, undone by just a lowly score?
Quoth the fruit fly, “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, fly or fiend!” I shrieked, still smarting—
“Get thee back into thy vial where thou ere hast lived before!
Leave no sign here as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy spear from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the fruit fly, “Nevermore.”

And the fruit fly, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the somber bust of Darwin just above my office door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming;
And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!

_____________________

This article is republished with permission from the May-June 2007 issue of the Annals of Improbable Research. You can download or purchase back issues of the magazine, or subscribe to receive future issues. Or get a subscription for someone as a gift!

Visit their website for more research that makes people LAUGH and then THINK.

Do you long to create your own captivating poetry, but lack the energy to come up with your own witty words?  You need a Magnetic Poetry set from the NeatoShop.  These fantastic 200+ word magnet sets come up with all the right words for you.  All you need to do is arrange the words into creative sentences.  You can finally satisfy your ravenous craving for poetry without ever having to use your delicious brain.

Magnetic Poetry is available in the following hilarious sets:

• Zombie
• Genius
• Office
• The “F” Word
• Bike Lover
• Geek
• Pirate
• And Vampire

Link | Be sure to check out the NeatoShop more Zombie fun!

Filmmaker Tim Burton wrote a poem about his frequent casting choice Johnny Depp. He also illustrated it! Link

The Octopus or Cuttle-fish!
I’m sure that none of us would wish
To have him scuttle ’round the house,
Like Puss, when she espies a mouse:
When you secure your house-hold pet,
Be very sure you do not get
The Octopus, or there may be
Domestic in-felis-ity.

Two selections from a collection of 50 in How to tell the Birds from the Flowers and other Wood-cuts: A Revised Manual of Flornithology for Beginners, by Robert Williams Wood, published in 1917 and now available fulltext at Project Gutenberg.

Via The Owl Hooteth.  [n.b. - "welkin" is an archaic term for the sky]

Seamon and his team asked JB to take part in tests regarding the epic work where they cued him with two lines selected from anywhere in the poem and asked him to recall the following 10 lines. In one part they picked out lines as they went through the books in order, in another they just chose books at random.

He seemed to stumble on a couple of books when they were tackled sequentially, but generally his verbatim recall was generally above 90% and seemed more consistent when the books were picked out randomly. The team also video-taped one of his live performances and found his average accuracy was between 97% and 98%.

JB is no savant; his accomplishments apparently came from hard work and dedication to the task. Link -via Nag on the Lake

Geeks Are Sexy presents the ABCs of geekdom, illustrating each of the 26 letters with Creative Commons photography. And when you read them all together, they make a really geeky poem! Link

(image credits: a, Mild Mannered Photographer and b, jpstanley)

Canadian poet Christian Bök wants his work to live on after he’s gone. Like, billions of years after. He’s going to encode it directly into the DNA of the hardy bacteria Deinococcus radiodurans. If it works, his poem could outlast the human race. But it’s a tricky procedure, and Bök is doing what he can to make it even trickier. He wants to inject the DNA with a string of nucleotides that form a comprehensible poem, and he also wants the protein that the cell produces in response to form a second comprehensible poem.[...]

Bök will create a code that links letters of the alphabet with genetic nucleotides (adenine, cytosine, guanine, and thymine, aka ACGT). Each triplet of nucleotides will correspond to a letter so that, say, ACT represents the letter a, AGT represents the letter b, and so on.

Link via Marginal Revolution | Image: US Department of Energy

Dearest creature in creation
Studying English pronunciation,

I will teach you in my verse
Sounds like corpse, corps, horse and worse.

I will keep you, Susy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy;

Tear in eye, your dress you’ll tear;
Queer, fair seer, hear my prayer.

Pray, console your loving poet,
Make my coat look new, dear, sew it!

The poem is now 274 lines long, meant to be read out loud. How much of it can you manage before mispronouncing something? Link -via Geeks Are Sexy

Link

From the Upcoming ueue, submitted by Ape Lad.

Here’s a funny video clip about how to break up with someone … with poetry! Link

You would imagine a palindrome is pretty hard to think up, maybe the odd word could be easy enough, and with a bit of effort a phrase, well how about a 224 word poem? here’s

“Dammit I’m Mad”

by

Demetri Martin

Dammit I’m mad.
Evil is a deed as I live.
God, am I reviled? I rise, my bed on a sun, I melt.
To be not one man emanating is sad. I piss.
Alas, it is so late. Who stops to help?
Man, it is hot. I’m in it. I tell.
I am not a devil. I level “Mad Dog”.
Ah, say burning is, as a deified gulp,
In my halo of a mired rum tin.
I erase many men. Oh, to be man, a sin.
Is evil in a clam? In a trap?
No. It is open. On it I was stuck.
Rats peed on hope. Elsewhere dips a web.
Be still if I fill its ebb.
Ew, a spider… eh?
We sleep. Oh no!
Deep, stark cuts saw it in one position.
Part animal, can I live? Sin is a name.
Both, one… my names are in it.
Murder? I’m a fool.
A hymn I plug, deified as a sign in ruby ash,
A Goddam level I lived at.
On mail let it in. I’m it.
Oh, sit in ample hot spots. Oh wet!
A loss it is alas (sip). I’d assign it a name.
Name not one bottle minus an ode by me:
“Sir, I deliver. I’m a dog”
Evil is a deed as I live.
Dammit I’m mad.

I promise you, bar some punctuation, it reads the same forwards or backwards.

Link

(image credit: Flickr user puja)

From the Upcoming ueue, submitted by Jake.

See also: A Day in Palindromia

In high school and college, I spent hours writing overwrought, angst-filled, free verse poetry. Now today’s spoiled and over-emotional teenagers can do the same thing, but with only a single mouseclick, thanks to the Adolescent Poetry Generator.

Here’s a sample:

i am over adam he is my
night he’s my world
and that made me cry, when i
take a drug u will surely stay
alive i log into my inbox, i’ve got
mail!! that’s
faster than any
other mail,including the snail.
gotta write bak to bak.. hi
bak,what’s up?

Link via The Corner

Like a madness,
it grips internals,
twitching,
flexing,
instincts correlate,
holding me here,
driving me closer to them.

Link – via rickoshea

Zombie Haiku by Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle
into that zombie plagued night.
And take the shotgun.

Zombie Haiku by Walt Whitman
Every skin atom
form’d from this soil, this air,
tastes like chicken meat.

Zombie Haiku by William Shakespeare
To bite through the skull
or beat it against the wall?
That is the question.

Soon after, real poets and writer joined in the fun:

Back to the buffet
for second helpings-
Care for a rump of infant?
- Billy Collins, former U.S. Poet Laureate and author of the lovely Ballistics: Poems

If zombies smoked pot
maybe they would skip the brains
and settle for cake.
- Doug Benson, writer and comedian regularly seen on Best Week Ever

The day I died you
tried to put a bullet in
my head. You missed. Lunch!
- David Wellington, author of the terrifying Monster Island trilogy

Link – Thanks Ryan!

(Photo: Zombie Walk San Francisco 2006, more at Laughing Squid)