The Man Who Counted and the Birth of Perfect Number Poetry

In The Man Who Counted by Malba Tahan, readers are invited into a world where mathematics becomes not just a science, but an art form—alive with imagination, logic, and beauty. For many, this book serves as a gateway into seeing mathematics not merely as calculation but as creativity. Through its storytelling, The Man Who Counted introduces mathematical concepts with wonder, transforming numbers into living ideas. It was through this same spirit of discovery that I, too, found fascination in one of mathematics’ most elegant patterns: the sequence of perfect numbers.

Perfect numbers are those whose factors add up to the number itself. The first few in the sequence are 6, 28, and 496. For example, 6 equals the sum of 1, 2, and 3 (its factors). Likewise, 28 equals 1 + 2 + 4 + 7 + 14. The sequence continues—though it becomes increasingly complex—with 496 following from 1 + 2 + 4 + 8 + 16 + 31 + 62 + 124 + 248. To many mathematicians, perfect numbers represent harmony and completeness—a numerical ideal. To me, they became more than an equation; they became poetry.

Inspired by The Man Who Counted, I sought to transform the perfection of these numbers into a poetic constraint. Traditional mathematical formulas are expressed in digits, but what if they could be expressed in words? My alteration to the perfect number formula uses the number of letters in each word rather than the number of words in each sentence to represent the sequence. In this system, each word’s length corresponds to a number in the pattern of perfection.

For instance, to reflect the first perfect number (6), one would compose a phrase with words whose letter counts follow 1, 2, 3. The second perfect number (28) uses the sequence 1, 2, 4, 7, 14—a much more complex challenge, since even finding a 14-letter word stretches the English lexicon. Just as mathematicians can only go so far practically when calculating perfect numbers, this poetic version meets a similar creative boundary: it works beautifully for the first two sequences, but the third (496) becomes nearly impossible in linguistic form.

To demonstrate this new poetic constraint, I created a pair of mathematical poems:

I am you = Riddle.
I vs. them; religion, macroevolution = antidisestablishmentarianism.
I am ion = metal.
I am EDTA reduced malcontentedly = ethylenediaminetetraacetates.
(Salie Davis, April, 2009)

Each line aligns word length and meaning with the perfect number sequences. The poems use science and identity—ionization, chemistry, religion, and riddles—to reflect mathematical harmony in language. The equals sign, while not necessary, serves as a visual bridge between logic and art, emphasizing that meaning can emerge through structure as much as through sound.

This form—linking mathematics to linguistic structure—represents more than a creative experiment. It may well be the foundation for a new genre of constrained writing, one where equations evolve into verse, and mathematical elegance finds expression through words. In this form, mathematics is no longer confined to symbols and proofs; it becomes rhythm, metaphor, and art.

The potential of mathematical literature lies in such innovations. When poets draw from mathematical inspiration, they extend both disciplines—proving that creativity can thrive in constraint and that structure can lead to revelation. Just as The Man Who Counted revealed the poetry hidden within numbers, this new form of Perfect Number Poetry reveals the mathematics hidden within language.

Perhaps, as we move forward in the growing culture of mathematical literature, new poets and thinkers will build upon these ideas—creating forms yet unimagined, where every digit, every letter, and every constraint contributes to the art of understanding. Mathematics, after all, is not only the science of patterns—it is also the poetry of perfection.