“59” is a love poem about prime numbers, written and performed by British poet and mathematician, Harry Baker. It is available on YouTube, better on stage than on page, but here it is:
59
59 wakes up on the wrong side of the bed.
Realises all his hair is on one side of his head.
Takes just under a minute to work out that it’s because of the way that he slept.
He finds some clothes and gets dressed.
He can’t help but look in the mirror and be subtly impressed
How he looks rough around the edges and yet casually messed.
And as he glances out the window,
He sees the sight that he gets blessed with,
Of 60 from across the street.
Now 60 was beautiful,
With perfectly trimmed cuticles, dressed in something suitable,
And never rude or crude at all.
Unimprovable,
Right on time as usual,
More on cue than a snooker ball but liked to play it super cool.
59 wanted to tell her that he knew her favorite flower.
He thought of her every second, every minute, every hour.
But he knew it wouldn’t work, he’d never get the girl.
Because although she lived across the street they came from different worlds.
While 59 admired 60’s perfectly round figure,
60 thought 59 was odd.
You see, one of his favorite films was "101 Dalmatians."
She preferred the sequel.
He romanticized the idea they were star-crossed lovers.
They could overcome the odds and evens because they had each other,
While she maintained the strict views imposed on her by her mother,
That separate could not be equal.
And though at the time he felt stupid and dumb
For trying to love a girl controlled by her stupid mum,
He should have been comforted by the simple sum.
Take 59 away from 60, and you’re left with the one.
Sure enough after two months of moping around,
61 days later, 61 was who he found,
He had lost his keys and his parents were out.
So one day after school he went into a house.
And as he noticed the slightly wonky numbers on the door,
He wondered why he’d never introduced himself before.
As she let him in, his jaw dropped in awe.
61 was like 60, but a little bit more.
See she had prettier eyes, and an approachable smile,
And like him, rough around the edges, casual style,
And like him, everything was in disorganized piles,
And like him, her mum didn’t mind if friends stayed a while.
Because she was like him, and he liked her.
He reckoned she would like him if she knew he was like her,
And it was different this time. I mean, this girl was wicked,
So he plucked up the courage and asked for her digits.
She said, "I'm 61."
He grinned, said, "I'm 59. Today I’ve had a really nice time,
So tomorrow if you wanted you could come over to mine?"
She said, "Sure."
She loved talking to someone just as quirky,
So she agreed to this unofficial first date.
In the end, he was only ready one minute early,
But that didn’t matter because she arrived one minute late.
And from that moment on there was non-stop chatter,
How they loved "X-Factor," how they had two factors,
How that did not matter.
Distinctiveness made them better,
By the end of the night, they knew they were meant together.
And one day she was talking about stuck-up 60,
She noticed that 59 looked a bit shifty.
He blushed and told her of his crush:
“The best thing that never happened because it led to us.” 61 was clever, see, not prone to jealousy,
She looked him in the eyes and told him quite tenderly,
"You’re 59, I’m 61, together we combine to become twice what 60 could ever be."
And at this point 59 had tears in his eyes,
Was so glad to have this one-of-a-kind girl in his life.
He told her the very definition of being prime
Was that with only one and himself could his heart divide,
And she was the one he wanted to give his heart to,
She said she felt the same and now she knew the films were half true,
Because that wasn't real love, that love was just a sample,
When it came to real love, they were a prime example.
Harry Baker
And, while I’m mentioning performance poets, I was pea-green with envy last week to discover that one of my absolute favourites, Mike Garry, (so much more than a performance poet) visited my elder grandson’s high school doing what I think was a poetry workshop. Had I known, I could have hung around outside the school gates, a poet groupie. Anyway, he was well received and my grandson was impressed.
Back to the subject of numbers. There is no escape, they are everywhere. We couldn’t manage without them. Clocks, calendars, reference numbers, codes for everything and I’m thankful that we moved on from Roman numerals. I think I’ve mentioned before that as a child, I could not grasp money sums. Pounds, shillings and pence. I could not get the hang of it and no amount of frustrated shouting from my teacher was going to make the penny drop. I was seven, or eight. Decimalisation was introduced some years later, for my benefit. I wasn’t alone, I’m sure.
My younger grandson brought his maths homework, needing my help. He doesn’t. He just likes to chill at our house and being without his siblings, he gets all the treats to himself, and undivided attention. He’s aged nine, Year 4, and he was doing six columns of multiplication tables. I’m okay with that, though eight times and nine times gets my brain fumbling a little bit. He believes me when I say swapping the numbers round still gives the same answer and I show him what I mean with five times four and four times five. He already knows, but we’re both enjoying the one to one. A multiplication tables chart fills the flip side of his A4 work sheet and he reminds me how to use it.
Thanks for reading, Pam x
59 wakes up on the wrong side of the bed.
Realises all his hair is on one side of his head.
Takes just under a minute to work out that it’s because of the way that he slept.
He finds some clothes and gets dressed.
He can’t help but look in the mirror and be subtly impressed
How he looks rough around the edges and yet casually messed.
And as he glances out the window,
He sees the sight that he gets blessed with,
Of 60 from across the street.
Now 60 was beautiful,
With perfectly trimmed cuticles, dressed in something suitable,
And never rude or crude at all.
Unimprovable,
Right on time as usual,
More on cue than a snooker ball but liked to play it super cool.
59 wanted to tell her that he knew her favorite flower.
He thought of her every second, every minute, every hour.
But he knew it wouldn’t work, he’d never get the girl.
Because although she lived across the street they came from different worlds.
While 59 admired 60’s perfectly round figure,
60 thought 59 was odd.
You see, one of his favorite films was "101 Dalmatians."
She preferred the sequel.
He romanticized the idea they were star-crossed lovers.
They could overcome the odds and evens because they had each other,
While she maintained the strict views imposed on her by her mother,
That separate could not be equal.
And though at the time he felt stupid and dumb
For trying to love a girl controlled by her stupid mum,
He should have been comforted by the simple sum.
Take 59 away from 60, and you’re left with the one.
Sure enough after two months of moping around,
61 days later, 61 was who he found,
He had lost his keys and his parents were out.
So one day after school he went into a house.
And as he noticed the slightly wonky numbers on the door,
He wondered why he’d never introduced himself before.
As she let him in, his jaw dropped in awe.
61 was like 60, but a little bit more.
See she had prettier eyes, and an approachable smile,
And like him, rough around the edges, casual style,
And like him, everything was in disorganized piles,
And like him, her mum didn’t mind if friends stayed a while.
Because she was like him, and he liked her.
He reckoned she would like him if she knew he was like her,
And it was different this time. I mean, this girl was wicked,
So he plucked up the courage and asked for her digits.
She said, "I'm 61."
He grinned, said, "I'm 59. Today I’ve had a really nice time,
So tomorrow if you wanted you could come over to mine?"
She said, "Sure."
She loved talking to someone just as quirky,
So she agreed to this unofficial first date.
In the end, he was only ready one minute early,
But that didn’t matter because she arrived one minute late.
And from that moment on there was non-stop chatter,
How they loved "X-Factor," how they had two factors,
How that did not matter.
Distinctiveness made them better,
By the end of the night, they knew they were meant together.
And one day she was talking about stuck-up 60,
She noticed that 59 looked a bit shifty.
He blushed and told her of his crush:
“The best thing that never happened because it led to us.” 61 was clever, see, not prone to jealousy,
She looked him in the eyes and told him quite tenderly,
"You’re 59, I’m 61, together we combine to become twice what 60 could ever be."
And at this point 59 had tears in his eyes,
Was so glad to have this one-of-a-kind girl in his life.
He told her the very definition of being prime
Was that with only one and himself could his heart divide,
And she was the one he wanted to give his heart to,
She said she felt the same and now she knew the films were half true,
Because that wasn't real love, that love was just a sample,
When it came to real love, they were a prime example.
Harry Baker
And, while I’m mentioning performance poets, I was pea-green with envy last week to discover that one of my absolute favourites, Mike Garry, (so much more than a performance poet) visited my elder grandson’s high school doing what I think was a poetry workshop. Had I known, I could have hung around outside the school gates, a poet groupie. Anyway, he was well received and my grandson was impressed.
Back to the subject of numbers. There is no escape, they are everywhere. We couldn’t manage without them. Clocks, calendars, reference numbers, codes for everything and I’m thankful that we moved on from Roman numerals. I think I’ve mentioned before that as a child, I could not grasp money sums. Pounds, shillings and pence. I could not get the hang of it and no amount of frustrated shouting from my teacher was going to make the penny drop. I was seven, or eight. Decimalisation was introduced some years later, for my benefit. I wasn’t alone, I’m sure.
My younger grandson brought his maths homework, needing my help. He doesn’t. He just likes to chill at our house and being without his siblings, he gets all the treats to himself, and undivided attention. He’s aged nine, Year 4, and he was doing six columns of multiplication tables. I’m okay with that, though eight times and nine times gets my brain fumbling a little bit. He believes me when I say swapping the numbers round still gives the same answer and I show him what I mean with five times four and four times five. He already knows, but we’re both enjoying the one to one. A multiplication tables chart fills the flip side of his A4 work sheet and he reminds me how to use it.
Thanks for reading, Pam x
