An equation is a sentence with a grammar. Change what the variables hold and the grammar goes on working — the relations stay rigid while the words inside them turn metaphorical. These are the structures I built to do that.
Each one below is a form I invented or named: what it looks like, how to read it aloud, and a poem of mine that runs on it.
Also called the proportional poem. Two similar triangles hold four terms in a fixed relation. Nothing in that relation requires the terms to be numbers, so four concepts will sit in it just as well — and the moment they do, the geometry starts making claims about them.
“a is to b as c is to d.”
The form can be solved for any of its four terms, and each solution is a different poem saying the same thing from a different vantage. That is the pleasure of it: the meaning does not sit in one arrangement, it survives all of them.
The similar triangles poem pushed past two ratios. Three similar triangles give six terms and three equal ratios — and with more ratios in hand, a new operation becomes available.
Take any two of the ratios and add or subtract their numerators together with their matching denominators. The result still holds the proportion. Each choice of pair and operation is a different flavour of the poem, and each flavour can then be solved for any of its terms.
What the expansion buys is a poem about differences rather than quantities — the gap between two terms standing in fixed ratio to a third.
Three concepts on perpendicular axes: two multiplied to yield the third. I usually display it solved for one of the factors, because that arrangement lets you push the denominator toward nothing and watch the value climb without bound.
Multiplication matters here, and it is not interchangeable with addition. Add two concepts and they stay separable — you can still see the seam. Multiply them and they integrate, and what comes out has a magnitude neither had alone.
Twelve of these arranged contiguously in one Cartesian system make what I call a Dodecaorthogonal Space Poem, which is the structure of A Spectrum of Jewels.
Rather than an empty structure, an entire existing model — a law of motion, a physical relationship — is borrowed intact and used as the vehicle. The model arrives carrying its own semantics, and every relation inside it stays binding once the words go in.
In the language of embodied cognitive linguistics, the borrowed model is the source domain and the words placed in its variables are the target domain. The concrete maps onto the abstract, and it is that mapping — not the arithmetic — that does the poetic work.
The first one I made was Psychronometrics in 1983, which borrows Einstein’s time dilation to describe why a summer was longer when you were four.
A derivative is the rate at which one thing changes as measured by the change in another. This form addresses the first and second derivatives of a phantom function — a function you are meant to feel your way into rather than plot on a coordinate system.
The idea came out of physics. Position, velocity and acceleration stand in exactly that relation — velocity is the first derivative of position, acceleration the second — and position is to velocity as velocity is to acceleration. Which is the similar triangles structure already, arriving from a different direction.
“a is to the rate a changes as the rate a changes is to the rate that rate changes.”
Two finished poems that share a term can be joined. Solve both for the term they have in common, set them equal to one another, and a third poem falls out — one neither of the originals contained.
The new equation can then be solved for any variable in it, so a single shared word can open a whole family of poems. When the two source poems come from two different poets, the result is a collaborative substitution poem — a genuine collaboration, since neither author can predict what the join will say.
Not an equation but an axiom set. Take a formal system, substitute concepts for its primitive terms, and let the axioms carry the metaphor by force of their own logic. Nothing is asserted directly; everything follows.
In Peano’s String the system is Peano’s axioms for the natural numbers. Where Peano writes number, I write cat; where he writes successor, I write the God of; where he writes zero, I write Abraham. The axioms are otherwise untouched.
The fifth is induction. Read the five together and a theology assembles itself out of arithmetic — an endless succession of gods, each the god of the last, none of them first.
Forms of mine are not the whole field. Others working in equational poetry have built structures of their own — among them the long division poem, used for years by Bob Grumman, and the place value poem of Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino. The nine pieces in Selected Work run on the forms above.