Siren Call

Weekend at the lab, poring over code

Ink-stained fingerprints 

Mark research papers new and old.

Deep Neural networks, CNNs, LSTMs, SVMs,

Acronyms - galore,

I'm trying to

Teach a computer how to 

Make sense of this world.

Pictures labelled, videos supervised,

Gigabytes of data at my disposal, 

That for loop needs a new function, 

Abstract that logic out, the phone chimes for attention,

An email from my professor - the intro

Needs a new beginning, we have to emphasize 

Our contributions, market our research, 

Tell our story just right.

Fountain pen across printed page,

Key-strokes describe an algorithm in the night.

Royal blue against inky black,

That anachronism comforts, takes me back

To the 5th standard, when after years 

Of pencil work, we were allowed the ink pen.

I knew back then,

What I wanted to do with my life.

A lifetime later, 15 years in Australia,

And a year and something in Leuven,

5 years in industry

Means my H-index is

Not quite what it needs to be.

I'm struggling for ideas,

For papers, for inter-disciplinary research,

I need to make my mark 

In a sea of competitive sharks

I have to build relationships,

I have to reach critical mass.

And all this while my personal life

Takes a back-stage, 

The girl I'm interested in

Will have to wait.

Science is my mistress,

Her siren-call rings out

Over the rocks, and 

I'm prepared to swim out

Into the blackness of the night.

Fading Light

The setting sun marks in sharp relief

Pink-hued clouds low on the horizon.

They move in slow-motion,

Animated brush-strokes

Across a rapidly darkening canvas.

The soaring, plaintive vocals  

Of London Grammar

"We're Wasting Our Young Years"

Resonates through the apartment -

It feels a bit like that tonight.

10 storeys up, panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows

Reveal a procession of twin headlights making their tired way

Along the long road back to Brussels.

IMEC, the lone skyscraper 

Towers over the freeway, a handful of lights ablaze

Where researchers work late.

Giant cranes, construction done for the day

Stand like sentinels, their red eyes 

Twinkle in staggered succession,

As they acknowledge their mechanical brethren

Plying a modern day migration route,

Stratospheric contrails in their wake,

To Heathrow and further west.

A gentle breeze blows in,

A candle flame flickers.

Summer laughter drifts in from a garden below,

A spread, family, friends.

There's that atmospheric bass and reverb again,

"We're Wasting Our Young Years",

And it feels a bit like that tonight.