The Science Of Love: A Valentine

When science examines romantic attraction

(In other words, love and affection)

It uses the methods that serve us so well

But hearts can’t survive a dissection.

We study, in science, by breaking up problems

And looking at pieces and bits

Assemble the puzzle to show the big picture—

Assuming each smaller piece fits!

In life, we see love as a powerful feeling

It’s typically shared (say, by two);

You wouldn’t find love by examining neurons

But that’s something science might do.

A chemical cocktail assaulting the cortex,

Anandamide flooding the brain

Endogenous opiates running amok

And you’re either in love, or insane

Neurochemistry surely is crucial, I know,

But something important is missing

I’ve never encountered a brain, on its own,

With an interest in hugging or kissing.

Your genes play a part, I’m reliably told

By geneticists (likely, they’d know)

Though environment, epigenetically, molds

How those characteristics might show.

My heartbeat will race at the thought of your face

And my stomach gets tied in a knot

My fingers may tremble; my brow may perspire,

And other parts start feeling hot.

But none of these pieces can claim to be love

They’re mere tiles, in a larger mosaic

This modern view separates love into pieces;

My view is a bit more archaic

When I tell you I love you, you know what I mean:

Not only with all of my heart

Not only my brain, as complex as it is,

But all of me—every last part.

Looking through my blog stats, I have noticed the beginnings of the February Bump--the google hits for "biology valentines poem" or "scientific valentine" or the like (including charming misspellings).   And so, I give you this year's offering.   Funny thing is, it looks like it is an argument against a science of love, and that is not at all my view.  I am very much in favor of using the power of science to study love; I've even taught a senior seminar, half of which was on love (the other half, war. go figure.).  What I am opposed to is reductionism masquerading as explanation.  Love is something that whole organisms (usually people, but if you've watched my cat...) do, not something that parts of organisms do.  A proper explanation of love is not one which points to neurotransmitters or hormones; if anything, that is the how of love, but not the what or why.

For the one-stop-shopping ease of my readers, allow me to link to a couple of earlier valentines: the one that gets the most hits is the Evolutionary Biology Valentine's Day Poem.  It did make it to The Open Laboratory--the collection of the best science blog posts of that year.  Oddly enough, the previous year, Much Ado About The Brain? was featured in that year's Open Laboratory (and it is a love poem, which explains the link), and the following year, A Scientific Valentine made the collection.  One I don't recommend you use is What Do Women Want? (A Valentine's Day Poem), but hey, if that works for you, go for it.  Lastly, one of my favorites that I will not give you permission to use is An Uncommon Valentine Poem.  That was for a particular person, and it is hers, so you can't have it.

You have my permission, as per this post, to use these valentine verses if you wish.  Frankly, if you are in the sort of relationship where these are appropriate, you are an incredibly lucky person, and who am I to stand in the way of such a force of nature?  No payment is required.  However, having just found out that CuttleDaughter has been approved for a semester overseas, I would be tremendously grateful if those who use these verses and can afford to, would notice the tip jar over there to the right.  And, not that I'm voyeuristic or anything, but I'd love to hear about any positive (or humorous negative) reactions to these verses, if you do use one!

Cuttle-fish, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle!

First, the only viddy I could find with John Reed--from The Mikado, the beautiful "Willow, Tit-Willow" (and unless you are already familiar with the song, you need to watch it before continuing):



Unbelievably, this is is the only John Reed video I could find online! I can only hope that his fans will remedy the situation in the coming days.

Meanwhile, the organ which passes for my brain began twitching uncontrollably, and produced the following, purely fictional (I assure you!), work:

In a random encounter, a skeptical lass
Said "Cuttle-fish, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle--
There's a DNA helix tattooed on my ass,
Oh Cuttle-fish, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle.
And because it's a picture in sepia ink,
I thought I'd show *you*, just to see what you think."
Then she turned on her heel, with a mischievous wink:
"Oh, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle!"

So I said "As a skeptic, you know what I need."
"Oh, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle!"
"It's evidence only, a skeptic must heed."
"Oh, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle!"
"There are times when reality's not what it seems,
But a manifestation of innocent dreams,
And you'll melt into moonlight on watery beams"
"Oh, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle!"

As I followed along, she continued to flirt,
Singing "Cuttle-fish, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle!"
My attention she drew to the hem of her skirt--
"Oh, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle!"
Then she hypnotized me, with her magical tune,
And discreetly she showed me a lovely half-moon...
And heard, through a fog, as I started to swoon...
"Oh, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle-fish, Cuttle!"

A Scientific Valentine

I write today of human love
Not as some gift from god above,
But scientific views thereof
From many different fields.
Each science may have different tools,
And so the scientific schools,
Although they may agree on rules,
Have very different yields.

The chemists say it’s chemistry;
Biologists, biology;
Astronomers say “Can’t you see?
It’s written in the stars!”
In physics there’s a certain view
Psychology can claim one too
(And one with naught at all to do
With Venus or with Mars)

I’ve read a scientist who writes
That mating pairs scale passion’s heights
To outmaneuver parasites—
That could, of course, be it.
I’ve also read, we may respond
To those to whom we’ve grown quite fond
Because a stable mating bond
Makes offspring much more fit.

They may (or may not) all connect,
As scientists may well expect.
If one of them is more correct
Then I am not aware
But I am yours, if you’ll be mine,
My scientific valentine,
Through random chance or will divine
I frankly do not care.

Makin' Khalwat

News item: 52 couples detained under Sharia Law, charged with the offense of "close proximity".

She’s not a bride
He’s not a groom
But they decided
To share a room
The law’s been tested
Now they’re arrested
For makin’ Khalwat

It’s New Year’s Eve
At the hotel
They figured “hey,
We might as well”
I’d like to see ya,
But it’s Shariah—
We’re makin Khalwat

Picture a Malay melee
Down to the last detail
Cops in ambush to waylay
Couples now facing jail

All through Selangor
They’re facing time
You wanna bang her?
Well, it’s a crime
But don’t forget folks
That’s what you get, folks,
For makin’ Khalwat

They’ll do two years
And pay a fine
And then, my dears,
The sun will shine
Hope it was nice, cos
They paid the price, cos
Of makin’ Khalwat

Cuttlefish Classic: The Evolutionary Biology Valentine's Day Poem

Image: Michael McRae

In sociobiology,
Why I love you and you love me—
Which anyone can plainly see—
Is mostly in our genes.
No, not the ones you buy in stores,
But what a scientist explores--
I like the way you look in yours,
And you know what that means.

What subtly-coded stimulus
Takes you and me, and makes us “us”
And makes us feel ‘twas ever thus?
The list of suspects narrows.
No longer are we all a-shiver
From some Cupid with a quiver
Out of which he might deliver
Fusillades of Eros.

Nor Dopamine, nor Serotonin
Tell us why our hearts are moanin’
Though they serve to help us hone in
On–not why, but how;
The parasympathetic blush,
Adrenaline to bring a rush,
Are how, not why, I’ve got a crush
On you, my darling, now.

But if old Charles Darwin’s right,
The reason that the merest sight
Of you will always give delight
Is…reproductive fitness.
Throughout our species’ family tree,
Producing proper progeny
Is what determined you and me
And Darwin was the witness.

Is thinking that you’re oh so sweet
And how you’ll make my life complete
Some trick to make our gametes meet?
It seems it may be so.
I feel the way I feel today
Because some bit of DNA
Sees your genetics on display
And wants to say “hello.”

But think of this, for what it’s worth:
Millennia before my birth
That DNA had roamed the earth,
In residents thereof;
The neat thing is, it’s really true,
The feeling that I have for you
Although, of course, it feels brand-new
Is truly ageless love.

As I said before, I'm re-posting some of my favorites (and yours, if you let me know which ones) during this kinda sorta Fall Fundraiser Drive (tip jar over there on the right).

This one has been reprinted in last year's "The Open Laboratory", and gets tons of hits every February, for some reason. Sadly, it has not yet shown up in the Hallmark aisle at the local drugstore.

Blue Roses: A Halloween Poem

The BBC reports on a genetic breakthrough, of sorts. Japanese whisky distiller Suntory, along with Australian biotech firm Florigene, have succeeded (you can be the judge as to how well) in developing a blue rose. Blue roses, it appears, have been long sought, and are nearly mythological in status--a symbol of mystery, of impossible things, of hope against unattainable love.

Or not.

Horticultural purists find the genetic manipulation to be ... cheating, I suppose. As for me, I choose my roses by smell, not by color. I am far more interested in the possibility of trying 12 or 18 year aged Japanese single malt whisky. I guess maybe their gambit is paying off.

In honor of the blue rose, and because we are getting close to Halloween:

Blue Roses: A Halloween Poem

My love has roses in her cheeks—
This always has been true.
Last week, she tumbled down the stairs;
Those roses now are blue.

Her ivory teeth, her ruby lips,
Her blush of rosy red;
Each aspect’s hue now changed, because
She landed on her head.

I loved to lay my head upon
The pillow of her breast;
A cooler pillow now that she’s
Eternally at rest.

Geneticists have conjured up
The first true-blue blue rose
I’ll have to buy one for my love,
To sweeten her repose.

Blue roses at her bedside, and
Blue roses in her cheeks;
Eternal love, transcending death
The message it bespeaks

Beside her grave, I planted
Roses red, for love so true;
But every spring, the roses bloom
A deathly shade of blue.

Is this her way of telling me
She knows how much I loved her?
Or else, perhaps, a message that
She’s angry that I shoved her.

Love At First Sight... On Separate Trains

I have to say, as a hopeless romantic, that this is my favorite BBC story in, perhaps, forever.

It's the stuff of fairytales and songs that sell millions of copies around the world and make you an international singing star, if you're James Blunt.

As almost anyone with ears and a radio in 2005 would know, he saw a woman's face in a crowded place and he didn't know what to do. Should have put an appeal in Lovestruck.

The dating column in the Londonpaper, a free evening newspaper distributed across London, is hugely popular with commuters. It tries to match those whose eyes met across the bus, tube or train carriage and share one of those "moments" Blunt sings about.

Sadly, the paper appears to be going under, as of Friday, losing a competition with another free paper. But the article notes that there are other sites geared toward facilitating meetings between these "ships passing in the night" sorts of encounters.

More, the article explores the notion of that instant, the moment when eyes meet, pulses race, imaginations run wild...

But are these "moments" real or is it all in our heads? Attraction can be that instant, in fact human beings are wired up that way, says Professor Adrian Furnham, co-author of The Psychology of Physical Attraction.

"We do pick things up very quickly - someone's scent or a look that lasts a second longer than normal. Men in particular are wired up this way," he says.

Not terribly surprising there, from my point of view. Oh, wait, there's more:

"The interesting thing is that people believe the feeling is reciprocated, that something has been shared and that isn't always the case. Even if it is mutual it's not about romance, it's about lust. Humans are wired up to mate, not be romantic."

Spoilsport. (Ok, as a serious parenthetical in the middle of a lighthearted post, I have witnessed men who thought their feelings reciprocated. They thought they were in love; technically, in this case, due to differences in positional power, it was sexual harassment. Men, please do not assume she feels the same way. Ask. And listen.... ok, back to the lighthearted post:)

I have felt this, many times. When I met Cuttlespouse, I fell in love roughly .0001 seconds after seeing her for the first time. It took her a bit longer.

In instances where it is clearly an impossibility, the feeling is still inescapably wonderful; there is a fruit market in Athens that is indelibly etched in my memory simply for two moments. Going up the street, I chanced to look in the store and met her eyes. Going back down the street several hours later, the same. As the BBC story goes, this was one of those glances that lasted a little longer than usual, and that is all it takes. It was magical. Perhaps all the more magical because it can never be sullied by the harsh treatment of reality--in truth, she may have been looking past me toward someone else. But not in my memory.

Of course, the BBC includes a successful meeting in their writeup; the story would be just to horrible without it. But hey, those one-in-a-million success stories are what keep us going. For the Cuttlespouse and I, going for 25 years so far.

The verse is fictional--I started it in third person, but it just worked better in first.

I saw her—just a fleeting glance—
Amidst the milling crowd;
I thought she had to notice me,
My heart, it beat so loud.

I caught her eye, and kept my gaze,
As witnesses attest,
But I was in the eastbound queue
And she was in the west.

I very nearly missed my train
To keep her in my sight.
An angel, even in the glare
Of cold fluorescent light

Transformed I was; forevermore
I’d live a life possessed;
For I was on the eastbound train
And she was on the west.

My sadness grew with every mile
A dull and aching pain
I’d seen my heart’s companion, whom
I’d never see again.

My heart, I thought, would break apart
In pieces in my chest
For I was on the eastbound train
And she was on the west.

A week, then two, a month and more
I watched to see her face
Although I witnessed thousands there,
Of her there was no trace.

I loved, I knew, the perfect heart
Inside her perfect breast,
But I was on the eastbound train
And she was on the west.

It seemed a lifetime that I sought
The one whom I desired,
While she remained invisible
As if the gods conspired.

And if the gods denied me love,
The gods I would contest
Though I was on the eastbound train
And she was on the west.

And then, one day, a Lovestruck ad:
“The day we almost met”
The time, the place, the date, the face
I never will forget.

For weeks she had been looking,
But it’s just as you have guessed:
If she looked on the eastbound train,
That day I’d search the west.

We met, of course, and fell in love;
Now constantly explain
Just how it was we first met eyes
While riding separate trains.

And none could be so happy, no,
And none have been so blessed,
We sometimes take the eastbound train
And sometimes take the west.

Ah... Church Camp!

PZ reports on the Rapture Ready response to an atheist summer camp. Nothing that was not predictable, of course. (ETA: I forgot to mention, but should, that the germ of the idea for this verse came from commenter "William", here. Thanks, William!)

But I have to wonder if the Rapture Ready people have ever actually been to church camp. Ok, sure, some of them probably are conservative, staid, boring and godly camps, where same-sex groups gather to read scripture and look down on others. But that was not my experience. The following... was. The names are changed slightly to protect the innocent*, and to tell the truth I was not a terribly active participant in all the fooling around that was going on, but if anything it was far more than my report here alludes.

I remember Church Camp as a very happy place
Where adolescents gathered with each other, face to face,
And hormones started racing at a rather frightening pace,
And Jesus Christ was nowhere to be found.

I remember rainy days, and soggy, smoldering fires
With teenaged girls and teenaged boys and teenage strong desires,
And all the earthy fantasies that such a place inspires
And, Jesus Christ, we loved to mess around.

I remember Sarah, with her long and gorgeous hair;
She wore a string bikini, and she didn’t seem to care
If it slipped a couple inches while the counselors would stare,
And Jesus Christ himself would find her hot.

I remember Christie, with the braces on her smile;
The daughter of a preacher, she was very versatile,
And we knew that making friends with her was very worth our while,
And Jesus Christ protect us if we’re caught!

I remember learning about what the Bible meant,
Though I never really listened more than one or two percent;
My attention held by how the girls could help me pitch a tent,
And, Jesus Christ, I grew to love that place!

I remember going hiking, going swimming, playing games,
I remember every crush I had—I still recall their names—
Though I rather doubt such memories would fit the church camp aims…
But Jesus Christ? He never showed his face.



(* "Sarah" was actually Sara, and at age 17 she married a man she met at camp, when he was a counselor and she was 14, but looked 18. They spent a lot of time together that year. "Christie" was actually Christine, and a very sweet girl. I think she was my very first meaningful kiss.)

An Uncommon Valentine Poem

Disclaimer: No, I am not in love with ScienceWoman. I don't even know her; I have never met her. I have never seen anything but her muddy boots. But something about those muddy boots triggered a Valentines Day verse-if her husband wants to steal it, he is more than welcome.

Here’s a valentine poem for an uncommon woman
An uncommon verse is the method that suits
It won’t be an ode to some delicate flower;
My love is a woman with mud on her boots.

Her hair is pulled back in a practical fashion
The dirt from her glove leaves a smudge on her cheek;
The sleeves of her sweatshirt rolled up to her elbow,
She’s beauty itself--but she’ll never be chic.

She’s smarter than I am, which isn’t surprising,
She’s comfortable both in the lab and the field
Gathering samples or sorting through data,
Excited to see what the process will yield.

I’ll take muddy boots over heels in a heartbeat,
The hand that I hold may have mud on its glove
This Valentines Day, here’s my uncommon poem
For my uncommon woman, the one that I love.


Further disclaimer: I have nothing against heels. A very dear friend has a collection of over 400 pairs, mostly unworn and collected for their artistic merit. But for any who think a stiletto is necessarily sexier than work boots... it ain't necessarily so.

Of Porcupines And Valentines

I was trying to come up with something that sounded deep, but wasn't. (More than usual, I mean.) So anyway, this is for those people who, for whatever reason, have a valentine who is easier to give a card to than to actually approach. Don't look for any hidden meanings; the whole point is to really not mean a damned thing.


I write today of valentines, with velvet trim and laces,
The sort we give to porcupines, instead of warm embraces;
We blame such silly practices on love, or fate, or Cupid,
But hugs for walking cactuses are nothing less than stupid!
The concept was romanticized by Hallmark (for the money),
But no one ever fantasized a quill-pig as a honey.
We end up with our porcupines in some or other fashion,
Then have to turn to valentines to substitute for passion;
We need a card’s assistance to protect us from a puncture,
When the need to keep a distance is required at this juncture.

So… my cuddly little porcupine, I’m sending you this card—
I want you for my valentine… but please, don’t hug too hard!


Oh, and for all those hits I keep getting for people searching for valentines day poems, click the tag for "love", and there are a few more on this site. If you have someone you think might like one of them, you are incredibly fortunate; they are not Hallmark.

What Do Women Want? (A Valentine's Day Poem)

In this past Sunday's New York Times Magazine, Daniel Bergner reports on a number of modern sexologists who have set out to explore what Freud once termed the "dark continent" of female sexuality. This is no brief article, but a detailed picture of the research, motivations, and findings of a handful of leading researchers, centered on Meredith Chivers at Queen's University in Kingston, Ontario. The article includes forays into other researchers' work, so that we get a nice picture of the variety of approaches.

Some is familiar--the reports of the systematic differences between measures of arousal (when arousal is measured via genital plethysmographs, woman are seen to be much more strongly and easily aroused to a variety of stimuli than men are; when arousal is measured via self-report, women reported less arousal to some stimuli and more to others, than the plethysmograph readings would predict) I remember from some of the early research in reactions to pornography. Other research is less familiar to me (fMRI readings during orgasm, for instance). The history of this line of research is explored a bit--from Freudian psychoanalytic approaches to physiological studies, to the impact of AIDS on sex research, to the potential of a female Viagra.

I was saddened a bit, but not terribly surprised, by the reductionist views so many researchers were taking. It is understandable that one might focus on just one part of a phenomenon in order to bring scientific rigor and control, but sexual arousal is something that happens to whole organisms, to people, not merely to genitals, and not merely to "minds". Bergner does tell us of the researchers' attempts to extrapolate their findings back to whole people, and whole relationships, but to my thinking the Times Magazine article itself was the better "big picture", with each researcher contributing a part of a mosaic. It is well worth the read (when you find the time); then, to thoroughly dash your best hopes for humanity to the dust, take a look at the comments. *sigh*

Anyway, there is sufficient grist in this article for any number of new Valentine's Day verses. For today, the inspiration comes from Marta Meana, a professor at the University of Nevada at Las Vegas. In her research, one answer to the question "what do women want?" is "to be wanted":

For women, “being desired is the orgasm,” Meana said somewhat metaphorically — it is, in her vision, at once the thing craved and the spark of craving [...] She recalled a patient whose lover was thoroughly empathetic and asked frequently during lovemaking, “ ‘Is this O.K.?’ Which was very unarousing to her. It was loving, but there was no oomph” — no urgency emanating from the man, no sign that his craving of the patient was beyond control.

I’ve got so much to say on this Valentine’s day
With you, Muse, my sole inspiration;
I’ll unburden my heart, pluck out Cupid’s dart
For my pen, and begin my notation:

I could train a white dove to deliver my love
In the form of a perfect red rose
Or else write in the sky, in great letters so high
That I guarantee everyone knows.
I could gather wild flowers, and listen for hours,
To whatever you have on your mind
I could gaze in your eyes with appreciative sighs,
Though they tell us, of course, love is blind.
For you, I could bake the world’s best chocolate cake
With a frosted “I love you” upon it,
Or for something with taste that won’t go to your waist
I could write a Shakespearean sonnet.
I could write you a tune, by the light of the moon,
Played on harpsichord, zither, and oboes,
Or choose some other fashion to show you my passion:
Let’s fuck like a pair of Bonobos.

Love, Love, Love...

An interesting little post, over on Pharyngula; apparently some artist (not gonna link--he likes it when you link) has claimed that atheists, as far as he can tell, do not believe in love. News to me, of course, and I am certain it would surprise anyone who knew me. I would have thought that love was rather independent of a belief in any spiritual entity. Actually... if I stopped to think about it, an all-loving, all-powerful, all-knowing god, a god that is more important than your piddling little life here on earth (hey, look at the "rapture ready" crowd if you doubt there are people who view it that way), would make the Greatest Love Story On Earth a nothing in comparison.

Think about it. An omnipotent God could create the Grand Canyon with an infinitesimal part of His Effort--no need for millions of years of erosion, hell, it could have been on an off day, and a second best effort at that. No need to feel awe at the canyon; sure, it is greater than anything humankind could do, but it is nothing for God--you should see His work on the horsehead nebula!!

So, love. Human love. That amazing thing that makes your heart, your stomach, your head run around in circles and get happily dizzy just thinking about him/her... sorry, it is only the merest shadow of a shadow of God's Real Love For You (tm). Given the least opportunity, you really ought to leave your true love to join your True Love, and never regret.

Bullshit. I'll have none of it.

“An atheist cannot believe in love”
This statement puts me at a loss for words—
I’d really like to see him try to prove
His thesis; clearly it’s absurd.
Imagine, for a moment, God existed—
Omnipotent, Omniscient, Everywhere—
And just as preachers always have insisted,
God indeed was loving, and did care.
This love from God would dwarf our mortal hearts;
Your spouse’s love is nothing next to His.
The whole of human love, the smallest part
Of God’s, for His is all there really is.
I love. That is a fact, not mere façade;
Yes, love exists, which can’t be said of God.

The Evolutionary Biology Valentine's Day Poem

I suppose it is inevitable, on Valentine's Day, that we will see scores of stories of "what love is", citing one branch of science or another, or forgoing the science to bring out the poets. It always bothers me, though, to see some neurotransmitter named as the "cause" of this or that sensation, because it is only a cause in a very narrow proximate fashion. Simply put, neurotransmitter action is not why we feel love, but (at best) how we feel love. We still have to ask "well, why is that particular neurotransmitter released in the presence of my One True Love? What is so special about this person?


In sociobiology,
Why I love you and you love me—
Which anyone can plainly see—
Is mostly in our genes.
No, not the ones you buy in stores,
But what a scientist explores--
I like the way you look in yours,
And you know what that means.

What subtly-coded stimulus
Takes you and me, and makes us “us”
And makes us feel ‘twas ever thus?
The list of suspects narrows.
No longer are we all a-shiver
From some Cupid with a quiver
Out of which he might deliver
Fusillades of Eros.

Nor Dopamine, nor Serotonin
Tell us why our hearts are moanin’
Though they serve to help us hone in
On–not why, but how;
The parasympathetic blush,
Adrenaline to bring a rush,
Are how, not why, I’ve got a crush
On you, my darling, now.

But if old Charles Darwin’s right,
The reason that the merest sight
Of you will always give delight
Is…reproductive fitness.
Throughout our species’ family tree,
Producing proper progeny
Is what determined you and me
And Darwin was the witness.

Is thinking that you’re oh so sweet
And how you’ll make my life complete
Some trick to make our gametes meet?
It seems it may be so.
I feel the way I feel today
Because some bit of DNA
Sees your genetics on display
And wants to say “hello.”

But think of this, for what it’s worth:
Millennia before my birth
That DNA had roamed the earth,
In residents thereof;
The neat thing is, it’s really true,
The feeling that I have for you
Although, of course, it feels brand-new
Is truly ageless love.

Valentine's Day Is Almost Here!

Only a few more days until it will be too late to pretend you did anything other than panic at the last minute and elbow three other people out of the way to get the last remaining Hallmark Valentine--the one with a family-friendly cute double-entendre featuring a cartoon dog and the fingerprints of the thousand previous shoppers who decided against purchasing it.

So as a public service, I am offering a few more Heart-In-A-Jar poems, for those people who are not content to give their hearts away only as a figure of speech. If I had the skill, I would mock up some cards for you to print out, but that is not what this cuttlefish knows how to do with ink. So, the next best thing. I am giving anyone the permission to use these poems as they wish--they can even take credit for them, so long as A) they know they are lying and B) they send me a line or so about how it went. If you actually put in the effort to create an illustrated card, then A) good on you! and B) send me a line or a link or whatever so I can see it too!

The previous three heart-in-a-jar poems (and the original news story that explains them) were posted here. And of course, if your fancy is bred not in the heart but in the head, here is a brain-based love poem you can also use.

So, have fun!


I give you my heart on this Valentine’s Day
In a jar you can keep on your shelf,
With your books and your papers, in cluttered array,
Or a prominent place by itself.
It is really my heart—deep within every cell
Are the strands of my own DNA;
I could have just given you chocolates, but, well,
My message is clearer this way:
I love you much more than a card, or some flowers,
Or trinkets you see in the stores;
So it’s off to the lab for a few hundred hours,
And my heart—if you’ll take it—is yours.




My love for you was different from the start;
A love like this, the world has never seen--
Not only will I offer you my heart,
But also kidneys, pancreas, and spleen.
You need a thyroid gland? Just say the word.
Quite gladly I’d deliver you my liver;
In giving and receiving, I have heard,
It’s always best to choose to be the giver.
I’d surely die for you, but better still,
I’d much prefer to live with you, in love;
To share your world with you would be my will
And not to gaze down on you from above.
I offer you my heart, but be aware:
You’ll have to wait until I grow a spare.




I gave you my heart, as a sign of my love
And I thought that you’d keep it from harm.
But you put it to work, in a flask in your lab
And I find, to my growing alarm,
That you’re growing another, and more after that,
In a regular cardiac farm!
But then, when I saw them, in sterilized jars
Neatly ordered, in columns and rows,
I thought that, perhaps for the first time in history
Anyone looking now knows
And can see, with the placement of every new heart,
How much greater my love for you grows.

Matters Of The Heart (... in a jar)

It's all over the news--researchers at the University of Minnesota have "created a beating heart in the laboratory". Basically, they used the protein fiber matrix from one heart, stripped of muscle cells, as a scaffold upon which to grow a new heart, using a solution of cells from another rat. Yeah. I know, all this talk about hearts is so romantic. So, in a bit of a reversal from my previous position, I return to the romantic view of the heart as the foundation of love, with a trio of little verses inspired by the heart in the jar. I can see it now... the picture above, on the front of the Hallmark card, with one of the following verses inside...


I'm new at this game,

And I don't know your name,

But I love you, whoever you are;

My heart may be true

But it's also brand new

I grew it myself, in a jar!

I can feel my heart grow,

So I love you, you know, 

And not like a cousin or brother;

I will give you my heart--

Every bit, every part;

If you break it, I'll grow me another.



My heart is yours; it’s in a jar
That sits upon your shelf;
It’s happy being where you are
And not all by itself.
You asked me for a souvenir
To keep while we’re apart;
I thought a bit, and it was clear—
It had to be my heart.
And now, although my heart may soar,
It is no longer mine;
A message that forevermore
I’ll be your valentine.



A rat cadaver’s donor heart
Is stripped of every cell
The protein fiber matrix left
Looks like a ghostly shell;
This matrix, in a sterile flask,
Is bathed in rat-heart goo
With both adult and baby cells,
And starts to grow anew.
In only days, the growing heart
May beat, or merely twitch,
Then work, at roughly two percent…

Like yours, you heartless bitch.

Life's a Bitch (and then you marry one)

From the BBC, a story about a man's marriage to a female dog. (There is a brief video of the ceremony, too.)

An Indian man has "married" a female dog, hoping the move will help atone for stoning two other dogs to death.
P Selvakumar, 33, said he had been cursed since the killings, suffering paralysis and a loss of hearing.

The wedding took place at a Hindu temple in Tamil Nadu state. The "bride" wore an orange sari with a flower garland and was fed a bun to celebrate.

Superstitious people in rural India sometimes organise weddings to animals in the hope of warding off curses.

I offer the happy couple a toast:

Though it's baseless superstition that has led to your position,
I sincerely hope the two of you are happy as can be.
Yes, the way is sometimes stony on the path of matrimony
You consulted an astrologer--how dare I disagree?

No I will not choose to quibble--let your bride wolf down her kibble
With the absolute support of all your family and friends.
And I hope you're feeling better, and that every time you pet her
You'll remember why you did this--you are making your amends.

I wish multitudes of smiles, in both Man and Doggy styles
Let the others wag their tongues--the two of you can wag your tails.
It was beautiful, not kitschy, though the bride was rather bitchy
In a world of mass conformity, it's nice when love prevails.

Version 2.7

The "cognitive daily" blog asks: Will humans marry robots in 50 years?

Linky.

She’s my little bit of heaven, even better than real life,
She’s the version 2.7 motor-actuated wife.
When I come home from the office, she’s a sympathetic ear,
With the faintest scent of silicone I catch as we draw near.
“Here, let me take your papers, Hon, and let me rub your back;
You must have had a stressful day—come on, let’s hit the sack.”
Her lips are warm and supple, with a kiss that shows desire—
A brilliant application of a bit of memory wire.
She trembles gently at my touch, as strain-gauge sensors feel,
And as she starts to moan and gasp, you’d swear that she was real.
But she’s better than a flesh-and-blood—For one thing, she has codes
Allowing me to choose from seventeen vibration modes!
She never has a headache; there’s no in-laws to avoid;
Heck, I’ve never even had the need to change a solenoid!
She’s my little bit of heaven, even better than real life,
She’s the version 2.7 motor-actuated wife.

Much Ado About...The Brain?

"I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest."
Much Ado, IV.i.284-285

A student at Pharyngula asks "why do we still talk about the heart?"

The sound of your voice thrills my temporal lobe,
My occipital swoons at your sight;
When we walk hand in hand, my parietal and
My prefrontal are filled with delight.

My thalamus and hypothalamus know,
Without anyone having to tell ‘em,
That I’m head over heels, and it certainly feels
Like I am to my poor cerebellum.

Hippocampally organized memories tell
Of the way people look and admire us;
It’s like walking with god, but that’s really the odd
Way I feel my right angular gyrus.

My amygdala swells with desire for you,
But with rage and fear? Nope, nada.
My pulse will race, and my breath keep pace,
Thanks, medulla oblongata.

Master Shakespeare, speaking through Beatrice, might
Have nearly said it best:
“I love you with so much of my brain
That none is left to protest.”

How do I love Thee?

Pharyngula linked to this site--http://www.godlovesyouforever.org/christian_poems.htm

It is horrid. Utterly horrid. In the way that traffic accidents are horrid, and fascinating, and you cannot look away. The following poem is inspired by one on that site, entitled (no, seriously) "Jesus and I will be very awesome and beautiful". Really.

Mine is just a little bit ... different.

How do I love Thee?

Jesus, Lord, with all my heart
I love Thee more than life
More deeply, from the very start
Than husband’s love for wife.

More deeply than a child’s love
For parent or for pet;
How deep my love, for You above,
Has not been fathomed yet.

There is no sacrifice, I know,
For which I am not willing
There is no place I would not go,
Your love is just so thrilling

It breaks my heart to see you there
Nailed up upon the cross
Those soulful eyes, that tousled hair,
Oh, what an awful loss

If I could hold Thee in my arms,
Annoint Thy wounds with balm;
I’d gladly suffer any harms
To make Your life more calm.

I’d softly stroke Your aching head
Massage Your weary back
I’d lay You gently in my bed
If energy You lack.

I’d kiss Your forehead, then Your lips,
And then Your holy chest—
With lips, and tongue, and fingertips,
I’d do what I do best.

Because I love Thee, O my Lord
I show Thee this affection
And thus, I pray, Your strength restored,
You show Your resurrection

Then fill me with Your love—for I
Am just your humble vessel
And, if you want, then we could try,
For fun, a gentle wrestle.

You know, of course, I’d let you win
You’ll always be on top;
If loving You, Lord, is a sin
I still don’t want to stop.

So Halleluiah! Praise Your Name!
I’m singing (sometimes humming)
The world was blessed when first you came,
And with your second coming.

And I, myself, am doubly blessed
That heaven’s my reward
With all my heart, deep in my breast,
You know I love You, Lord.

Eulogy for Gary Aldridge

Posted on Pharyngula, 10/10/2007

We gather here to eulogize
The Pastor and the Man
Old Gary Aldridge, often wise,
Though not his latest plan.

A member of the Christian nation,
Friend of Jerry Falwell,
His last attempt at masturbation
Didn't go at all well.

For fifteen years, he'd preached the word
A Southern Baptist minister
His death--now, is it just absurd
Or something rather sinister?

How does a person come to wear
Not one wetsuit, but two?
(Although, I know, I should not care
I'm curious--aren't you?)

I tend to think that, years ago,
He spied a rubber glove,
And wondered "Should I--well, you know--
When God and I make love?"

He tried it on, and found a tube,
Half hidden on his shelf,
Of KY--smiled, and murmered "Lube
Thy neighbor as thy self."

And minutes later, hard at work,
He felt a little odd
Was this a sin, or just a quirk?
He talked it out with God.

"Is what I'm doing here a sin?
Or is my pleasure Thine?
Is this as bad as skin on skin?
Lord, please, give me a sign!"

So God produced a pamphlet: "Your
Vacation in Aruba!"
And pointed out--right there, page four--
The wetsuits used for SCUBA

See, God's not really how you think
A deity might be
He's got a wicked bondage kink
(Just ask His son, J. C.)

So Gary died, not steeped in sin
But following God's plan;
So straight to Heaven--come on in!
And bring the wetsuits, man!

A story, sure, but it may yet
Explain what happened then.
The moral is, please don't forget:
Your safeword is "Amen".