Trigonometry

When we lived in Edmonton the wooden front steps of our house collapsed, after thirty or so harsh winters. I decided to replace them myself. First step was my first mistake. I just tore them out before looking at them properly, let alone taking measurements. Quickly I realized I was in trouble. In the first place, I didn’t have a table saw, which was going to cost a fortune — but, I said, that is just the price to pay for the new me I was going to become.

The more I thought about it the worse things got. I was unaware that there are pre-fab patterns and forms for this kind of thing. So it seemed that the task of figuring out how to get from the concrete slab at the bottom of what had been the steps to the threshhold above, where a small landing deck would have to be built, was going to require some advanced trigonometry. There was also the problem that the steps had sat upon concrete pillars, fortunately still in place, but which meant that … 

Well, I’m sure that the practically inclined can see what it means better than I can explain. A lot of sines and cosines, I thought, except that I had forgotten exactly what sines and cosines were and so would have to study up a bit. That too seemed like a self-improvement project. 

Nasrin was watching all this with a wary eye, especially when I started talking about how many six-packs the job was worth. That afternoon I went out to check the cost of table saws and to buy a text of trigonometry tables, plus to get the necessary beer. Before I left she made me promise not to buy anything but the beer until the next day, time to reflect.

Once I was safely out of the house, she got on the phone and hired sight unseen a handyman carpenter from the local paper. He said he would have it done by the end of the afternoon. When I got back he was already at work in the front yard. It was done by the end of the day — to my relief!

If you ever hear Nasrin making remarks about trigonometry books, which she does from time to time with glee and giggles, now you’ll know the background story.

So much for the balance between solid things and the cerebral, which I have almost always had out of whack.

Iris

At the end of every storm we’ve grown used
to we feel exposed. There is too much light.
Gone the swaths of cloud wind tore like
clotted bandages from the curds in the sky.
We hear blood reverberating in our ears,
wonder whether others divine our thought’s
tempest. Aren’t our minds crossed with roiling squall
better to conceal the tack of our bark?
Something is over, that is enough.
Yet wouldn’t we rather it not? We’re so
naked when calm. When spasms abate,
we’re alone, seeking out pangs like old friends
who suddenly are gone. Through a bright cleft
in the clouds sunbeams rain down upon us

***
I’ve tagged this “noumenal” poem and formally similar other ones “muted sonnets”, meaning they do not sound or ring, which is what “sonnet” meant originally. They do conform to the same underlying pattern based on the ratio 4/3, belonging to an elegant set of seductive beauty. Mathematics and poetry spring from the same roots.