Poetry and Science: an unexpected kinship

A polar opposite friend will open up whole new worlds for you

I met a person today…

I met a wonderful spirited person here on Medium today. We are in every apparent way opposites. Or at least very different, as far as I can tell in this digital world. At the core of this contrast, she is a poet and an artist whose words convey passion and energy. I am a duuudely scientist who slouches on lounge chairs.

She wrote kind and supportive comments about one of my stories, which led me to her profile page. And then I quickly wondered if my judgment of people on this filtered digital domain was so far off…

The first thing I saw on her page is her featured post titled: With My Love Pants Pulled Up.

Now you have to understand, when I see anything like the words, Love and Pants, in that combination, and capitalized, I click ‘back’ or ‘away’ or ‘stop stop stop what am I doing here’, as fast as my aging knuckles can.

But this person, Lee, seemed like the genuine article. The real deal. A wonderful person. But, you say, how on Earth could I tell from a couple of brief comments, a few dozen words in total? You can’t. I can’t. But… But my Jedi instincts were telling me, “the Force is strong with this one”.

So, I clicked.

And I panicked again. It was a poem. A poem!

Duuuudes. Don’t. Read. Poems!

But… The Force is strong with this one.

So, I read on.

The words, Love Pants, in the title and in the first line still evokes for me something like Leslie Nielsen and Priscilla Presley in their classic love scene from the movie, The Naked Gun. I know that’s not the intention, and as Lee says in the second line: It’s not that absurd…

And then the next couple lines grab me and stay with me to the end, and beyond:

… to imagine Angels Leaning over each blade of grass, Whispering softly, ‘Grow, grow, grow…’

The duuudely fear of poetry…

Ever since I was a kid, communication was always a problem. My mom convinced the school administrators to accelerate me a year starting in 3rd grade. I was short even for my age, which, combined with my funny name and Asian looks, in class with kids a year older, and sometimes two, made my school life decidedly not fun.

Perhaps my inability to talk to my classmates in any way other than a defensive plea stunted my broader comprehension and appreciation of language. While I sheltered easily in math and sciences and never had trouble keeping up there… I floundered mightily in the humanities.

Poetry was a particular struggle. Why, I thought, do people find refuge in a form of communication that further blurs the already vague and indecipherable nuances of human communication? Why?

I remember in particular, Walt Whitman and his classic poem (so we were told) Song of Myself.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

What in graciousness was that?? First of all, I was always told by my parents and in Sunday school to be humble, and hearing “I celebrate myself, and sing myself” sounded nothing like humble to me. So, I was suspicious of this Walt duuude right away.

And then this poem told me that I should assume whatever Mr. Whitman did? Why should I? And, what the heck did celebrating himself have to do with me assuming what he assumed?? And then he went from assumptions to atoms… this guy was all over the place — and where ever he was and where ever he went made no sense to me.

Atoms were my special purview: it was physics, it was science, it was comfort, and what was it doing in a poem? It felt like theft. Take these atoms back, I thought, out of Whitman’s poem, they didn’t belong there. Atoms were discrete, physical, precise, and out of place amongst a cloud of inscrutable and vague words. It made me uncomfortable and mad.

The teacher droned on about what the poem meant, and nothing she said made the least sense to me. Then she said poems also meant different things to each person, so we should each interpret the Song of Myself and share what it meant to us.

And the dreaded moment happens. She calls on me. And I freeze. My mind is blank with fear and ignorance. Her mouth moves but there are no sounds. Time stops. The laughter on my classmate’s faces is frozen in an uncertain mix of grimace and ridicule. I look from face to frozen face and wonder, are they feeling pain at my incomprehension, or are they jeering? I look down at my desk and mumble something.

Then the teacher called on someone else, and the moment passed. Time flowed again. But that frozen shard of fear still sits like a piece of glass in my hand.

Melting the shard…

The next couple lines of Song of Myself contained a small fragment that did not alienate me.

I loafe and invite my soul I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass

What on Earth did Walt mean by him loafing and inviting his own darn soul?? Garbage and nonsense, I pouted in confusion.

But… to relax, to be at ease observing a spear of summer grass… now he was speaking something primal and core to me and my soul. Not that I knew what a soul was.

But that fragment of a line of Walt’s spoke to me then, in the same way as Lee’s lines do today:

… to imagine Angels Leaning over each blade of grass, Whispering softly, ‘Grow, grow, grow…’

It has taken decades, but Lee finally closed the loop of time for me. With a blade of grass, she completed a circuit to allow the stilled particles of time to flow once again, to melt the shard of fear keeping poetry frozen like a splinter of ice whose itch never abated.

Poetry and science are not all that different. They are not polar opposites as I once thought, and as many think now.

Both are fundamentally about understanding ourselves and our fellow humans, and how we fit into this sometimes confusing and painful world. We turn to poetry and science because they seek answers, and proffer ideas, and beauty, and wonder. They celebrate the genius and the common. Both speak a language that is sometimes inscrutable to those outside the conversations within their respective spheres.

The layman is no easier wandering in amongst a gaggle of poets than a flock of scientists. Both honk and squawk incomprehensibly at each other with passion and sincerity. Sometimes alienating all, despite desperately inviting everyone in. Poets and scientists can be prima donnas who celebrate themselves and sing themselves. But both, in truth, welcome all and need the blessings of all.

Poetry and Science are not polar opposites. They are two sides of the same coin.

And I met a friend today who showed me that we also are two sides of the same coin.

Thank you for reading, and please share!

If you are more of a science and technology type, take the time to check out the more poetic side, maybe check out Lee’s profile page and her writings.

If you are more of a poet and artist type, please check out the folks on the other side of the tracks, like my profile page which tends to lean heavily on science and history and business.

And of course, there are many who span the spectrum, and to those ambidextrous folks I tip my hat with envy and admiration.