The Einstein and the Eddington

 

This nonsense poem was written by Dr. W. H. Williams for a faculty club dinner on the eve of the physicist Eddington's departure from Berkeley in 1924.

This nonsense poem (which is based on Lewis Carroll’s "The Walrus and the Carpenter" in "Through the looking-glass") was written by Dr. W. H. Williams (who shared an office with Eddington) for a faculty club dinner on the eve of Eddington's departure from Berkeley in 1924.

Preparation

We suggest you do the vocabulary activity below before you read or listen. Then read and/or listen to the poem and do the task to check your comprehension.

Exercise

Task 2

Decide if the statements about the poem are true or false.

Exercise

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Discussion
 

Comments

VicentiuM's picture

I didn't like this article. The voice of Edington was annoying and there are more thatn just four dimension. The ryme was ok but I was hoping to learn more about Einstein and Edington rather than this poem.

maria.sara18's picture

I like this article!

valentina p's picture

When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer  by Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman When I heard the learn’d astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
In this classic poem, the speaker hears a scientist lecturing, presenting proofs, charts, and diagrams about the stars. Soon the poet grows weary and ventures outside to look up “in perfect silence at the stars.” The poem, while valuing scientific knowledge, speaks to the value of direct experience, both in science and in life. Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

editor_adam's picture

The Planting

Look closely at the soundless
mobs of bees drifting among the marigolds.
Their pollen sacs are swollen,
heavy with the male seed that sighs
between a yellow bed
and the shadow of an ovum's room.

Notice my trowel too,
how I entrust its business end with the soil.
This is the easy part,
the earth coolly tender from last night's rain.
Its skin peeled back,
the ground yawns and stretches,

its feelers ticking faintly, tasting sun.
I crouch like a microscope, hovering
over the hole to watch the insects watching me.
I should have made a clank, intrusion
of clutch and gear, all the mental levers working limbs,
eye blink, and the harsh ploughing of the jaw.

But I have no voice for this,
and framed in a blinding sun these telescoping arms
must orbit unfathomed (their intentions
masked by silver mirrors reflecting clouds)
while tense plates of muscles
shift and compel my tectonic grip

to rock with a slow, elemental motion.
Then, as I spoon phosphate and lime,
ants scurry about their shattered room,
specks in Brownian motion
scattered, nonplussed,
and protesting with the clay.

Imagine my obsession
as I mate earth with roots green-tipped
and tumid with life, their cogwheels
straining to lock teeth inside the ancient place
(near my feet)
which I have prepared.

Water rushing down the sluice
disappears as each cell greedily fills its cask.
The plant is full of sweet wine drained
from a table held atilt, a greenhouse drunk
that thinks he's the only game in town
as he unpacks his limbs.

A stranger to these parts,
he quickly branches into my brain
where cardinals pluck the fruit from pedicels,
where plumes of inflorescence
are ravished in shadows of the old woods
which recede,

and where trembles of dispute
tighten the metaphysical throat through which I breathe,
alternately stripping or quickening my confidence
in a world, grounded in weeds,
that watches a plant flex its muscles
but speaks in the inaudible voice I am trying to explain.

All alone in their hive,
Cyprian queens and domestic drones
make sterile love. And there is no cure
as flowers chaste and drawstring tight against the bee's
stingless probe are turning from the garden
that is spading over and over.

by Daniel E. Wexler