Pi is so simple: a curved thought caught
then it’s gone, like sunlight under a wing.
We reach to pin the butterfly
but numbers’ dogged chase is doomed:
faithful to their master and the infinite end.
Pi glitters in the spinning stars, smugly measures
silicon unknowables. Not naming it
drives men mad. After a trillion decimals,
pi smiles its perfectly semicircular smile
and slopes away for the nth time.
Hunting Pi
Left illustration: Clinton Johnson is an illustrator living in San Francisco, inspired by nick-at-nite reruns and fractured fairytales, a heavy day dreamer, often staring at clouds. Working predominantly with paper and anything he can fit in his pockets.
by Carlotta Eden
Isabel Rogers lives in Hampshire. Her poetry has been variously published and performed (including in Poetry Wales, Mslexia, and Live Canon). A recent flash fiction was shortlisted in the 2013 FlashMob International Competition. She is currently editing her second novel and writing a sitcom. Details, and regular blogposts, are at isabelrogers.org.
by Isabel Rogers