How did ancients ever close their clothes, Do you suppose, Before the button was first threaded through the buttonhole ? Metal hooks or bows ? Who knows ? But what its lacking shows Is how quickly buttons sewed-up their control. But over time they frayed, As we fiddled, faffed, and flayed, And went awol as their stitches face abuse – They hold a fatal bug, Where a simple careless tug On a dangling string can let them on the loose. It leaves their hole a void Where they used to be employed – Forever lost, when all their bindings are unspun. But at least they’re silent grips, Unlike the noisy velcro strips, Or zips – But one day soon, they’ll surely come undone…
In a galaxy of smaller stars, With few that ever get to boom – They only get to fuse to silicon, By steady burn. Besides the odd Type 1, Then none will face a sudden doom – And just ten elements (bar traces) In the churn. Though ‘smaller’ stars are relative – We still get whites and blues – But nothing that can cross The cataclysmic iron line. In truth, the silicon is rare, Without a few Type 2s, But the largest lose their mass to stop Their super-shine. So there’s enough to build some silicates That build a rocky world, Though lacking radioactivity To heat its core. But it has a liquid ocean, In which chemicals are swirled, As the ultraviolet starlight warms Its barren shore. It may miss plate tectonics, But it holds an atmosphere, And it has no need to hurry When its stars are here to stay. Organic molecules will still Eventu’ly appear – However long it takes for life To find a way.
The 10 elements mentioned are Hydrogen, Helium, Carbon, Nitrogen, Oxygen, Neon, Sodium, Magnesium, Aluminium, & Silicon. And although needing fewer protons, the missing ones (Lithium, Beryllium, Boron, & Fluorine) are very hard to acquire without the by-products of a supernova.
In truth, the oxygen-burning needed to produce silicon (and small amounts of phosphorus & sulphur) usually only happens in the final months before a Type 2 supernova, which in turn will produce iron from burning that silicon unless the candidate star is only just over the 8-solar-mass threshold – though it is possible to get some ‘localised’ oxygen-burning in stars just below the limit when they’re on the asymptotic-giant branch of their evolution.
In terms of life, it is fascinating to think if it would be possible for life to arise – but it would be greatly increased if our rocky planet of silicates could avoid having its early atmosphere stripped away. Now, a lack of a magnetic core prevents an Earth-like magnetosphere, but an eqally powerful dynamo can be generated from metallic hydrogen inside a gas giant of Jupiter-or-grester mass.
And having our terestrial world be a large moon of such a planet will also give it plenty of tidal heating to compensate for its lack of radioactive decay to provide internal heating. It may even be able to have some form of plate tectonics and volcanism to prevent the carbon dioxide from getting locked away in the crust and losing all of our liquid water to ice.
Of course, there’s absolutely no reason to think that gravity could only form stars upto a maximum of 8-solar-masses but no greater. This is simply a thought-experiment into how to generate life using the least possible number of elements.
And as an aside, I have always found it hard to hear talk of ‘carbon burning’ and mean ‘carbon-fusing’ instead of ‘carbon-oxidising’. Of course, ‘oxygen-burning’ means the same either way…
A Duel after a Masquerade Ball by Jean-Léon Gérôme
Rivals
You do me wrong, you cad ! Egad !, I’ll snap your swagger stick. I’ll pay-back ev’ry insult, lad, And you’ll be glad I made it quick. I’ll give you thirty licks, and then I’ll add Another thirty more. I’m wise to all your tricks, comrad, And tell you this means war… Don’t doubt me on that score, you rake, You’ll soon be aching bad. I’ll bring the hurt, make no mistake. My words are iron clad. I’ll bound you over, bounder ! You shall flounder on my spleen – How dare that you imply that I Am such a drama queen…
Land first drifted this far North In the Late Devoniun And life had caught a ride as well, Beneath the midnight sun. In hothouse times, the land was free Of frigid glacial scars, And life was thriving in the dark Beneath the midday stars. And the jungles circled round the top Right through the Pliocene – When the brownest bear was polar, And the Northern land was green. In a million years from now, they’ll marvel how Our current life clings on – But there we are, continuous, Since the Late Devonion.
A life of drudgery down at the office, For a middle-class semi with a fence and a lawn, With kids in school and a well-waxed Morris And two weeks of sun – to payback for the yawn. That was the deal – the promise of Capital – One wage to raise a family of four, And careers of tedium, long and unflappable – Safe from starvation, detention, and war. All over now. The deal is defaulted – All of the grafting, none of the perks. The overdose of greed saw progress halted, As the wageslave’s lot is lost in the works.
Capitals, corbels, Etchings and baubles, Littered by the sculptors, Foisted by the smiths. Serifs and analogues, Grace notes and shaggy dogs, Wasting their energies With tales and jokes and myths. We tell them ev’ry time That ornament’s a crime – But they keep on disobeying As before. They’ll never realise Till we poke them in the eyes, To teach the little ingrates Less is more.
Delicate, nimble, Steady as a gimbal, A veritable symbol Of dexterity – But no such accolade To perfect poise displayed, Could ever be made To maladroit me. I’m subtle as a cymbal, As sharp as a thimble – I blunder and I bimble With artless artistry. My tiptoe is plantigrade, My whisper a hand grenade – A dancer, I’m afraid Is a thing I’ll never be.
This sketching-pad was once a shirt, This watermark a tablecloth – The threadbare rags of moth Shall live again. As paper of the better sort, Quite fit for constitutions, And for banknote distributions – It’s in the grain.
Yet when the papers bear the news, The ‘rags’ are from the gutter press – This label calls them worthless In one gulp. Strange, how the insult goes, Yet fittingly, it also lied – We’ll find no cotton pride Within their pulp.
Wooden and leather bound, fit for a steamer, A portable treasure chest, waiting for gold… The trunk of a journeyman, noble, or dreamer A personal world in a box in the hold. What wonders are lurking, restrained by its lock ?, To be served-up on life’s hungry trencher. Not wanted on voyage – but oh, when we dock, Then its contents shall spill-forth and venture.
Alcohol is a stranger, I’ve never imbibed in my life. I’ve always found its taste so vile, And thus, tea-total is my style. Its power becomes a danger, It can only lead me into strife – I cling to a dry piety To shield in safe sobriety. Ev’ry drunken friend is proof – It makes them far more sad than arty. Their wasted health and gifts are crimes – As I slyly wish for Temp’rance times. But I cannot help but be aloof As the only sober at the party – I wasn’t meant for a hedonist – Though part of me wonders, what have I missed ?
I am fully aware of the etymology of the idiom ‘tee-total’, and I have decided that I don’t give a toss.
Rhyming Couplets 