A journey into Mathematical Poetry
We’re often told that mathematics and poetry orbit in entirely different systems: the logic of math in one constellation, the lyricism of poetry in another.
But what if that isn’t true?
Reading the work of Radoslav Rochaylli challenges this assumption in the most startling way. The language of mathematics doesn’t simply intersect with his poetry—it engulfs it /His poetry doesn’t simply intersect with the language of mathematics—it is engulfed by it. Math and language don’t just intersect in his poetry—they become one.
What began as a child’s need for order in an overwhelming world became something unexpected: a poetics shaped by the metaphor of mathematical symbols, verse that is spare, disciplined, and revolutionary. I had the opportunity to ask Radoslav about his process, approach, and the geometry of thought behind his extraordinary work.
What first compelled you to combine mathematics and poetry?
I began experimenting with the intersection of mathematics and poetry—or, more broadly, mathematics and art—when I was about ten. From an early age, I was drawn to systems: logic, patterns, coded language. Looking back, I see this as part of a neurodivergent sensitivity, likely somewhere on the Asperger spectrum—an overwhelming need for precision and internal coherence in a chaotic, emotionally unpredictable world.
I didn’t have close friends as a child, and language—at least in its usual form—didn’t work for me. Social codes were impenetrable. So I turned to systems that made sense: algebraic formulas, grammatical structures, topological shapes. Mathematics became not just a fascination, but a kind of asylum—an environment where I could breathe order and extract meaning without interpretation.
It wasn’t until much later—while living in small towns in England in 2001—that this impulse took on a new shape. It was there, in Attleborough, Tunbridge Wells, and Hastings, that I produced my first “equation texts.” These pieces marked a turning point: from private obsession to conscious, conceptual art. I began to use mathematical notation not just as a visual tool, but as a poetic language in its own right—one of ambiguity, restraint, and emotional compression.
This eventually developed into a method I call Aesthetic Logical Minimalism: minimizing expression to its bare structural form, while allowing the emotional and existential charge to remain. I work with equations, operators, visual syntax—not to illustrate science, but to let abstraction speak on its own terms.
Mathematics, to me, isn’t cold. It’s intimate. Symbolic. Even spiritual. It uncovers the architecture of thought, and maybe even the fragility behind it. It is a system built out of silence—a language that can speak when all else falls silent.
Do you see mathematical forms as metaphor, structure, or both?
Both—but not decoratively. Mathematical forms are structures first: frameworks through which thought becomes visible and ordered. But once placed in a poetic context, they inevitably become metaphors too. A wave function can suggest presence and absence. A vector might imply the directionality of thought. An operator can become a symbol of transformation or contradiction.
It’s not about mystifying mathematics or simplifying science—it’s about letting these forms carry meaning across domains. In my work, they are not metaphors for something—they are metaphors as something.
How do you decide which symbols or formulas to use in a given piece?
My choices are intuitive at first, but never arbitrary. Each symbol or equation carries both its mathematical function and a specific emotional or philosophical tone.
In Abandoned Wishes, the solitary variable “a” becomes a placeholder for absence—a suspended intention, unfulfilled and unspoken. The formula is reduced to residue. In Cynical Spittoon, the formalism itself collapses: fragmented symbols appear almost spat out, as if reason is breaking under the pressure of cynicism. Even spacing becomes symbolic—a kind of visual spitting.
I choose formulas for their conceptual charge: contradiction, silence, resonance, dislocation. I often use topological forms and spatial structures not to represent scientific data but to create emotional architecture: a spiral for recursion, a broken grid for disoriented thought. Visual space becomes a field of logic, a system of signs. The aim is not to illustrate mathematics—it is to let mathematics become poetry, become painting. To make structure breathe, resist, collapse, or sing.
What do you hope readers feel—or notice—when they encounter your work?
I don’t expect readers to “get” my work in a conventional way—in fact, I often hope they don’t. I want them to pause. To notice tension, spatial stillness, the strange beauty of stripped precision. I want them to feel that something is active, even in silence.
Ideally, the reader feels unsettled—but alert. Aware that logic can be emotional, and emptiness can speak. Poetry doesn’t need to be about something; it can be presence alone. Some may read the equations. Some may just see pattern. Both are valid. What matters is that they allow another kind of perception to occur.
Do you consider your work part of a broader tradition—like visual poetry or conceptual writing—or something distinct?
No work exists outside tradition, and mine is no exception. I’m in dialogue with visual poetry, conceptual writing, concrete art, minimalism. These are my coordinates—but not my home.
Where concrete poetry used typographic form, and conceptual writing worked through erasure or procedural constraint, I extend into symbolic precision—using formal logic as poetic medium. I don’t romanticize science or decorate equations. I insert symbolic systems into poetic space and let them function independently. It’s not about beautifying science—it’s about letting abstraction resonate.
Aesthetic Logical Minimalism isn’t an aesthetic—it’s an approach. A question: Can a mathematical operator carry emotional tension? Can structure create philosophical sensation without language? Can poetry emerge from syntax alone? I don’t offer answers. I build a syntax of silence, form, and the pressure of reason.
Tradition is not a resting place—it’s the horizon. I walk toward it, knowing it always recedes.
Is there one line or moment across these three poems that you feel most connected to—or that readers often miss?
Yes, though it’s not a line in the traditional sense. It’s the letter “a” in Abandoned Wishes. Unelaborated, suspended, unresolved. Most readers overlook it, expecting narrative or closure. But for me, it’s the emotional core of the poem. The variable becomes a site of intention unfulfilled—a sentence waiting to be spoken, a subject waiting to be completed.
It’s not minimalist. It’s dense. It’s what remains after language breaks. A quiet emblem of what cannot be said.
“My work exists at the intersection of mathematics, language, and visual art. I employ mathematical operators, equations, and vectors not merely as motifs, but as fundamental building blocks — a universal vocabulary that transcends cultural and semantic barriers.”
Abandoned Wishes
Artwork entitled “In the time” Courtesy of Radoslav Rochallyi
This work merges the human figure with mathematical language, dissolving the boundaries between thought and form. The composition overlays a portrait with symbolic notation—operators, wave functions, and quantum variables—exploring the tension between identity and abstraction. Mathematics becomes not only a structural device, but a visual metaphor for cognition, perception, and the coded nature of reality.
