This poems is by James Clerk Maxwell, the renowned 19th century physicist. Note the references to the Daniel, Smee and Grove batteries and the Weber and Farad too! Note this poem predates his greatest work, Maxwell's equations, by 15 years. Perhaps Maxwell's creativity crossed between poetry and prose to electrophysics.
The Telegraphers Valentine, by J.C. Maxwell, 1860 The tendrils of my soul are twined With thine, though many a mile apart. And thine in close coiled circuits wind Around the needle of my heart. Constant as Daniel, strong as Grove. Ebullient throughout its depths like Smee, My heart puts forth its tide of love, And all its circuits close in thee. O tell me, when along the line From my full heart the message flows, What currents are induced in thine? One click from thee will end my woes. Through many a volt the weber flew, And clicked this answer back to me; I am thy farad staunch and true, Charged to a volt with love for thee Here is a short poem written during the first few years of commercial wireless telegraphy. Note the reference to Marconigram, which is a telegram passed by a Marconi wireless system.
Wireless, by K.G. Martin, 1904 Wireless, meaningless, save that we know that another man in a far away land stands by the side of a gibbering spark, punching his message into the dark. Into the dark of a Summer's night, and around the world and into the light of our brilliant Winter day Speeds the vibrant, quivering ray. And, caught in the web of sky flung wires, sinks to earth, chatters, expires; But before it dies, skillful hands of man Have torn from it's soul a Marconigram.
Infatuation, by Park Benjamin, from Wireless Age, 1915
O mystic fascination, O fate idealized I'm but a mass of molecules, reversely polarized. I'm vanquished by sorcery no amulet can cure, For love, you are the magnet and I the armature. The more I circle round you, love's current stronger grows, Till leaping forth from heart to heart, love's arc electric glows Against the ardor of that flame insurance won't insure. For love, you are the magnet, and I the armature. The messages unnumbered, of fond endearment fly, At once in all directions, the wireless they out vie. A throbbing heart is at the key, the dots and dashes sure, For love, you are the magnet, and I the armature. I dwell within your field of force, in that blest region where Your strength is to distance, inversely to the square, No influence external, can me from you allure, For love you are the magnet, and I the armature. At last we'll cling together, apart no more to roam, With hearts attuned harmonic, we'll sing ohm sweet ohm. One circuit never broken, while life and love endure, Forever you the magnet, and I the armature. These two poems were written by telegrapher Jerry Newton just after the turn of the century. Thanks to Greg Newton, a relative, for allowing me to put these on the web. Jerry Newton was employed with Western Union in San Antonio, Texas. He published these two twp poems, along with dozens of others, in a book in 1902. Though the family was living in Arkansas, he joined the Union service in Indiana, working as a telegrapher with Co. H, 1st Regiment, Indiana Cavalry, mostly in the Arkansas region.. His older brother Edward (1845-1923) joined the Confederate Army as a telegrapher, Co. H, 8 Arkansas Cavalry. After the war he ran the Little Rock WU office. Charles Newton (18551901), a second brother, worked as telegrapher at the Frankfort, KY office. Jerry worked for WU from after the war to around 1910. He pounded brass in Arkansas, Houston, TX and San Antonio, with perhaps some other stops in between. If anyone should happen across any information dealing with the Newton family telegraphers, please contact Greg Newton at
[email protected].
MY EXPERIENCE AS AN APPRENTICE by Jerry Newton
(Scene, Little Rock Office, 1868.) When left in charge one day at noon Alone, to hold the fort, I felt a yearning, uncontrolled To tackle noon report.
Some occult power kept pricking me, Which I could not subdue, With alternating joy and fear My courage came and flew. Sun-clad fancies gleamed so bright Of honors and of fame, But my verdancy was tristful `Fore welcome 30 came. `Twas up to me; L. R. was called, This gave my nerves a "jar," A chilly rigor seized me, when I answer'd, I. I. L. R. I started up my register, The paper went askew, I broke - with waning confidence But started up anew. The sender was an artist rare, And forty words at least Per minute, he was sending, and It seemed his speed increas'd. The moments kept on lengthening out, Each filled with fears galore, By desperation goaded on, I tore my hair and swore. I mopped the cold beads from my brow, As dots and dashes flew, And like a piece of marble stood With face of livid hue. Six hundred yards of paper soon was reeled off on the floor, Oh! phantoms of that fateful day Will haunt me evermore. Though five and thirty years have gone, My locks with gray are strewn, I see myself in Little Rock Taking press report at noon.
WE ARE COMRADES, JOHN by Jerry Newton Yes! comrades, John, for thirty years, Not in the usual way,
Comrades, though we have never met, This may seem strange to say. You've worked one end - I the other, Of a circuit all these years, We've shared our joys - the fates bestowed Our sympathies and tears. We both are growing shaky, John, Our MORSE is not so clear, And not so musical as when Our cups were full of cheer. Our dashes are of weary length, Our spaces uncontrolled, Our punctuation incomplete, Our touch is not so bold. You always make six dots for H, Eight for the letter S, But the alphabet is growing old, We too are, John - I guess. I will not chide you further, John, Alas! `tis too my fix, When H and P I try to make, I always make a six.
by Neal McEwen, K5RW
[email protected]
"CODE ODE" A Poem by Troy Weidenheimer, W0ROF To Telegraph Office Main Page It's more than dots and dashes, It's a place. A sanctuary for those who've learned To love the mysterious magic of Thoughts arriving in mile-long strings
On roads of ether or wire. Even more, it's peace, A shield from the disordered sounds Of traffic, angry people And industrial clutter clatter, Within its warm mantle We find soothing respite. And the patter of bright ideas it is, The sharp focusing of others' thoughts From miles beyond our vision's range, As in a dream we sit so still, It floats in our ears and stirs our minds With concern, remembrance, speculation And mirth. And code is music, From sounders and speakers it dances In the shack to each sender's inner clock, And comes butter-smooth, deliciously swinging, Or choppy staccato from a "fist" praising definition, Or perfectly metered, flowing exquisitely From the gentle hand of an artist. A place, And peace, Intelligence and Music.
Code is more than dots and dashes.
