Looking up on these dark clear nights Gets me thinking – Are these stars ever-burning lights ? I doubt it – some are already blinking – Variables, never the same through the year, Though the diff’rence is pretty small beer.
And the way the heavens have always wheeled, The polar axis shifting round, Till some low stars will be concealed, Below the horizon, gone to ground. Others are still up there, still shine, But the pyramids no longer align.
And of course, they’re all in orbit through the galaxy, Just like the Sun, Drifting in the gravity waves of the sea, Closer and further as round they run Changing the brightness that each appears, Over the hundreds of thousands of years.
On even longer timeframes are the giants, Stars which simply swell and swell, And brighten as they do, in strict compliance With their enlarged shell. And after that, they slowly fade from view – At least, without a lens or two.
And then there’s the stars that go boom – The supernovas, blazes of glory, The superstars that meet their doom In one almighty furore. But how many of these tonight Will ever get to burn so bright ?
Well, first of all, forget the Type 1a’s, We’ll never see them coming – But the Type 2s, before they end their days, They warn us first by humming – Blowing off mass in dimming clouds Whose nebulas we see as shrouds.
And we know they must be massive beasts To begin with, these monster stars But weighing one is a movable feast With ridiculous error bars. But we reckon they need eight Sun’s-worth of matter – Though birth-weight or death-weight ? Surely the latter …?
Yet finding a list of stars by mass is illusive, Given their many uncertainties – Perhaps their spectrums will prove more conclusive In trying to determine these – We know all O’s and B’s 1-to-4 Are massive enough to fatally roar.
Well, technic’ly the white dwarfs can be As super-hot and white, But all such dwarfs are too dim to see On even the clearest night – Take Sirius B – closer and larger than average dwarfs, Yet still into the black of the sky he morphs.
But what about the other extreme, The supergiants, too big to fade ? The I’s, and maybe some II’s, by the Yerkes scheme, Ought to make the grade. But what percentage of all these stars comply ? Who knows ?, but I doubt it’s very high
Still, however scant are these, There’s some already shining bright – Like Spica, Deneb and Antares, Quite oblivious to their plight. And Betelgeuse and Rigel bold – Indeed, half of Orion, all told.
The sky is a restless place, Forever shifting its paradigm, It’s just that the eyes of the human race Are merely a blink in time. So if you ask me why I stare up ev’ry night, It’s just to check the stars are all alright.
When I mentioned that ‘half of Orion, all told’ will go boom, I hadn’t appreciated that of the eight bright stars that form his torso, all bar Bellatrix will go boom. But there are plenty of dim background stars within his borders, so it still counts.
I asked Chat GPT what percentage of stars in the Milky Way will end up as Type 2s, (between 8-25 sun masses), and it thought 0.1-0.5%, or 1-5 per thousand. But when I asked what percentage of naked-eye stars, it thought 5-10%, based on their having O- and B-type spectrums.Of course, there’s a strong chance that it’s just pulling these numbers out of its black hole…
Look up naked-eyed on a pitch and inky night, And what do we see ? We see youth. From the barely-there shrug to the brilliant-bright, It’s winners that we see, to tell the truth. Big stars, hot stars, Mutant-freaks-the-lot stars, From one end of the bell-curve – All Ohs and Bees and Ays. The only reds are giant reds, The newly-borns yet soon-be-deads – They’re burning-up for all they’re worth In one almighty blaze. And quite a few of them will blow In supernovas (what a show !) Within the next-odd million years or so.
The faintest stars are faint Because they’re small. But sometimes they are faint Because they’re far – In fact, they’re greater than them all – Their neighbours whom I never see – Only brightest faintest-stars Can reach to me.
Have you ever looked up at all those stars – Looked up at them all And felt so small ? No, nor have I.
Some say it makes them terrified, That endless sky. But why ? I couldn’t fear it if I tried.
I mean, I’ve always known I’m insignificant To ev’ry passing tree and ant. So what ? I happy with my lot.
I guess there’s some who think “Oh wow ! All this for me ? I am the lord of all I see ! But then again I always knew – The universe exists Because I do !”
But most of us look up and think: “Oh wow, the sky is beautiful tonight – But so are you, And so am I, And so is ev’rything in sight !”
And if we should look up and feel A little less – No need to stress, No need to pray. Just tell ourselves we’re just as real, And just as dear – And sure, those stars are very far away, But we’re right here !
We never can quite get our heads around How distant they all are – Yet maybe we can get a little closer When we get away so far – Beyond the streetlit towns, Beyond the constant headlit cars, To where the sky is bigger, So much bigger – So much so, it jars.
I guess we need a bit of both: A bit of awe, a bit of boast, To really make the most Of all those stars.
Lazy, far too lazy, far too idle, Don’t ask me. Far too needful of relaxing, Far too dodgeful of all taxing Action that disrupts my lethargy. I don’t run when I can sidle, I make sloths look suicidal, Vegetate with pride – So don’t ask me.
And if I ask, she might commence To stroll with me upon the croft, And though I know she’s happy hence To never cross our friendship’s fence, I pray she’ll learn how much I wish I’d doffed My shy concern, and share those eyes so soft – And with this burn, I call on Providence That we may chance discern to glimpse that fabled herd aloft.
For surely must her ’mazement form As pigs come gliding from the west, And may she gape in wonder warm As grunting gammons flock and swarm. Atop the trees, the sows are in the nest. Upon the breeze, the shoats are cherubs blest – Such hogs she sees ! These razorbacks in storm Shall rend her heart’s decrees and forge sublime within her breast.
And ev’ry time their trotters pound For ham-thrust launch, so ardour springs. And ev’ry volant-piglet’s sound Of flapping brings such sighs profound. These airborne swine, these porkers shot from slings, These boars divine, these swooping, free-range kings, Such hope they mine when soaring heaven-bound – These aeronauts porcine shall speed her love on bacon wings.
“Come and let me love you, let me gaze upon your face, Stranded on this lonely isle makes folly of such grace – You shall wear my coronet, to sparkle in their eyes. Naxos is no place for you, but up there in the skies.”
So promised Dionysus unto Ariadne fair As she took his hand in marriage and his crown upon her hair. After all these years marooned, this prison with no bars, A wine-god comes to save her and to place her in the Stars.
Alas, first came Orion with his hounds and bovine foe, Then Perseus and Hercules with entourage in tow, And Booties and the Argo with their own supporting acts Left precious little room up there for third-rate myths and hacks. So only Ari’s crown could then be squeezed between those hunks. The moral: never trust upon the promises of drunks.
We are pit finds. We fill museum drawers – Not that we mind how we crowd your shelves and stores. We excite you, we invite you, With ev’ry coin and bead. So much to learn from tax returns And obscure housing deeds.
The seeker’s pact, if knowledge is your task: – For ev’ry fact, a question more to ask. What tales were told on harsh nights cold ? The telling now is done. So add your choice to our still voice, Your best guess now our tongue.
You bring us back with trowel and expert eye, And patient knack. What gems in this dirt lie ? A piece of pot or leaden shot Or bones or spoil remains. With these effects you resurrect, Unearth us from the plains.
We are heroes of archaeology. Where now grass grows was our society. The soil is sieved on which we lived And which maintains us still. We’re sprinkled through this residue, We feed this grassy hill.
All we achieved now fill the trays of finds. All we believed, extracted from our shrines. Our ritual sites and codes of rites For life after we’re gone. And proof ! For see – in surgeries Our skeletons now hang.
In libraries, our wisdom told and bound – Within these leaves more answers may be found. Reporting news, our journals muse Events which come to pass. What headlines say in press today Are taught in hist’ry class.
We are not dead, as here I write these lines, Yet when they’re read, we lie beneath the vines. And one day too then so will you, Dear Reader, be consumed – And in your turn may others learn From your remains exhumed.
My Latin may be lacking, My Dutch may be unknown, In Thai and Greek I cannot speak, My English stands alone. If I can’t win with Mandarin, I still might cast my a spell – I shall compete with language sweet, And use my English well.
Rhyming Couplets 