I think that I shall ne’er enjoy a piem as lovely as a Troi

If you clicked on the first link in the preceding post for Pi Day, you may have encountered a new word in your reading. I did (clicked), and I did (encounter a new word in my reading).

The new word was piem.

Never heard of it before.

A piem is a poem but not all poems are piems.

Let me explain.

A piem is a special kind of poem that represents pi (you know, our old friend 3.14159 and so on ad infinitum). Each word in a piem consists of n letters where n represents the digits in pi. That is, the first word contains 3 letters, the second word contains 1 letter, the third word contains 4 letters, and so on. Piems were originally introduced by the English physicist, astronomer and mathematician, Sir James Hopwood Jeans (1877-1946).

Here, from that link, is an example of a piem:

“How I want a drink, alcoholic of course, after the heavy lectures involving quantum mechanics.”

Perhaps it could have been arranged more poetically on the page:

How
I
want
a
drink,
alcoholic
of
course,
after
the
heavy
lectures
involving
quantum
mechanics.

Or perhaps more like -- but not exactly -- a haiku:

How I want
a drink,
alcoholic of course,
after the heavy lectures involving
quantum mechanics.

The possibilities, especially in longer piems, are -- like pi -- endless.

Convert the number of letters in each word of that 15-word piem to a numeral and, voila!, the result is 3.14159265358979 (pi to 14 decimal places).

Here is pi to the first 100 decimal places:

3.1415926535897932384626433832795028841971693993751058209749445923078164062862089986280348253421170679

Knock yourselves out coming up with piems of your own in the comments.

Chances are, however, that they won’t be nearly as lovely as actress Marina Sirtis in her role on Star Trek: The Next Generation as the half-human, half-Betazoid empath, Commander Deanna Troi, whom you may see here.

My sincere apologies to Joyce Kilmer for the title of this post.

Cogitations

l. René Descartes, 1637:

I think, therefore I am.


2. Joyce Kilmer, 1913:

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth’s flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.


3. The Little Engine That Could, 1930:

I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I--think--I--can, I--think--I--can, I---think---I---can, I----think----I----can, I thought I could, I thought I could, I thought I could, I thought I could.


4. Jemima Luke, 1841:

I think, when I read that sweet story of old,
When Jesus was here among men,
How He called little children as lambs to His fold,
I should like to have been with them then.

I wish that His hands had been placed on my head,
That His arms had been thrown around me,
And that I might have seen His kind look when He said,
“Let the little ones come unto Me.”

Yet still to His foot stool in prayer I may go;
And ask for a share in His love;
And if I thus earnestly seek Him below,
I shall see Him and hear Him above.

But thousands and thousands who wander and fall,
Never heard of that heavenly home;
I wish they could know there is room for them all,
And that Jesus has bid them to come.

In that beautiful place He has gone to prepare
For all who are washed and forgiven;
And many dear children shall be with Him there,
For “of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

I long for the joy of that glorious time,
The sweetest and brightest and best,
When the dear little children of every clime
Shall crowd to His arms and be blest.


5. Rhymeswithplague, 2013:

I think if I ever decide to stop blogging I would not announce it in advance like Katherine de Chevalle did. I would probably show you a poem, perhaps this one:

The Day is Done
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 - 1882)

The day is done, and the darkness
....Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
....From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
....Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
....That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
....That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
....As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
....Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
....And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
....Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
....Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
....Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
....And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
....Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
....Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
....And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
....Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
....The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
....That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
....The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
....The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
....And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
....And as silently steal away.

...and then I would simply stop posting. Silently steal away, as it were. I do wonder sometimes, though, how long it would take anyone to notice.