So how do you find the language, dude ? (And by ‘dude’, I don’t mean it to be An assumption you’re a bloke – not me ! You’re a dude, cos dude, you’re trekking ’cross the galaxy !) So how do you find the language ? Easier that you feared, I’ll bet – I know, it’s just so odd, and yet… They’ve always got the gist of it, from all I’ve met. It’s somehow telepathic, I think Cos some of them all talk with smell, Yet they sniff us and still can tell. I guess a thought’s a thought to them, and just as well ! Looks like we’ve found a Babel Fish ! I guess this means that God does not exist – We’re on our own – let’s make a fist And try to get back home before we’re missed.
How are you doing today ? Still weirded-out ? Chin up.. We’ll get through this, you and I, we’ll both get through. Are you finding enough of the knobbly leaves on which to feed ? I sure hope so, or else I just don’t know what you’re gonna do. But you should, they’re pretty common – at least, they are for me. As long as they’re not seasonal – now there’s a nasty thought ! But then again, they’re hardly leaves at all, but something else – Something alien. But ‘leaves’ will do for now, don’t let’s get fraught. They’re also full of water, so you’ll never have to risk a drink Of what the locals drink – which, trust me, is by far best left alone ! To tell the truth, I’ve eaten every leaf and swallowed every berry, And thrown them all back up again – ah, the joys of the unknown ! I had to try them all, of course, and I can say without a shadow That the knobbly leaves are absolutely all that you can trust. In fact, I’m only starting on this journal as I lie here, weakly, Trying to recover as my body learns to readjust. I was beset with fever, and I swore that should it ever break I’d save the next poor refugee the horror that was brought on me. So here it is – a promise kept. And soon, adventure beckons – Let’s make the most of sighting all these things we’d never sought to see.
I know…I know how you must feel, Because I felt the same – UFO and tractor beam, The whole stupid game. Who’d have thought the Future Would be such a cliché ? Retro-chic ? Who’d have thought the Aliens Would look so green and meek ? I guess they had a job to do, Exploring ev’ry human zone – We’re prodded, probed and watched…always watched, Yet always so alone. And then after days, or weeks, or months, Or who knows who cares how long, Given back our clothes and liberty, Turfed-out where we don’t belong. But what do I know ? Yours could be different – It really matters none. What matters is you’re here right now – Your adventure’s just begun. But unlike me, you’ve something more Than the togs in which you stand. You have my guide you’re holding now To this very foreign land. By chance, I had this notebook on me When I reached these distant shores – And now I shall record my journey, Turn my good luck into yours. You’re not alone, not any more – I went before you, found the way – I left this log, the one you found On some scared and future day. Just hope that you can read English – If you can…well, then, hello. It seems we’re living in science fiction, Don’t let it give you vertigo. Forgive me if I give voice to some wit And a joke or two – Especially from one author, Who was far more right than he ever knew. I hope they raise a knowing smile from you And not a frown. I wouldn’t like to think that I am Getting anybody down. I can’t give you answers Over how or what or why – All that I can tell you is –
A kingfisher glints like a galaxy, We only see where he used to be – A flash of white, a swirl of red, But when we look again, he’s fled. When searching with a lens, or two, He’s there, he’s gone, a cloud of blue – We scan the verge where the sparkles play, As he dances in and out of the Milky Way.
Okay, I admit it, the Moon’s far too large and too far South, but you get the idea
Aurora Australis
Way down South, where looking up Is looking upside down – The Man in the Moon is wrongside-right, And the Plough ain’t even in town. The Dog Star sails above the Pup, Throughout the Summer sky, With Betelgeuse kept low at night And Rigel kicking high. To Northern eyes, where looking up Is looking strange and stark – The Milky Way is far too bright, The pole is far too dark.
Alfie O’Ryan is quite the star, With a name as bloated as he – Some call him Beetle Juice, Some call him Battle Geese, Lord knows what he was to Ptolemy.
And then there’s Wry Gull and Puppies in Booties, If I eat a careener, will it turn out Serious ? And do we get to call these, The Piss Keys and the Higher-D’s ? We need an Older Baron to make it less mysterious.
Well, how should they be pronounced ? We have to teach ourselves by the ounce – We read them in textbooks with no overseer, Just Awful Yuccas and Cassy O’Pier.
As I’ve detailed elsewhere, Betelgeuse was pretty much dead to Ptolemy. I have heard it suggested that he didn’t care for the fixed stars because they were, well, fixed – unlike his real passion, the wandering planets.
The Moon is locked into the Earth, She only shows her best side, Keeps her dark side turned away. But the Earth has nothing to hide, Beneath her gaze, we spin on full display, For the Earth is not beholden to the Moon – Not yet, at least – And it won’t be soon, For the Earth is a massive beast. Yet the Moon is trying, trying, And will yet succeed, one day – But not before the seas have boiled away.
Now take a smaller star instead, Like Proxima Centauri – Very dwarven, very red. But orbiting we see Proxima Bee – A planet similar to Earth, An eighth as close as Mercury, With liquid water on its bed. Except, to be precise, More likely steam and ice, With one side always baking dry, The other frozen, dark and dead. You see, when this close in, it does not spin – But wait, that’s wrong, We ought to say it has a year-long day, Where the tide is strong.
Now let’s imagine orbiting round Rigel, A super-blue, so hot and bright, And though a massive mass, his heat and light Outpace his gravity – So if we were to move the Earth to where We’ll get a decent share to keep it all anthropical, To keep the Arctic icy and to keep the tropics tropical, We wouldn’t be so deep within his spacetime cavity. You see – we’d need to be about, say, twelve-times-Neptune out – That’s over two light-days. Our seasons would last centuries, our year now thirteen-hundred years And all to catch enough, but strictly not too many rays. And actually, the daylight would be rather dim, I hear – As most of Rigel’s output, it appears, Is in the UV band, And not the visible so much, not that far out. So even though it’s warm, no doubt, The photosynthesis of plants now won’t get such a shout, While all of us get super-tanned. His stellar wind is vicious, but I think we could withstand From this far off – but satellites may end in tears. But at least we get to spin on our own gears, So that’s a win. Rigel hasn’t got a hope to lock us in !
As I understand it, a planet wouldn’t naturally form so far out from its parent star, as there’s not enough material. Of course, it could be a captured rogue planet or ripped from another star.
Also, I saw Rigel’s name written down in the astronomy books of my youth long before I heard anyone ever pronounce it, so for me Rigel will always have a hard G.
Meanwhile, you can catch-up some more with Proxima Bee over here, and see a cameo by Rigel thisaway.
I spy…well bless my eye, A comet shot across the sky. Is this a sign ? For good or bad ? Is this how God would toast the lad ? I know what doubters say: That comets happen anyway.
I spy…well how ’bout this: Two planets close enough to kiss. And sure they’re bright…but bright enough ? Is that how God announces stuff ? I know how doubters mock: Conjunctions happen by the clock.
I spy…hang on…alright, A supernova bursting bright ! Now those are rare, so what’s that worth ? And yet…A death to hail a birth ? I know how doubters sneer: These things take months to disappear.
I spy…well here’s some more: A nova ? Or a meteor ? I guess…but not the clearest clue – Is this the best that God can do ? I know the doubters’ line: Why not just magic up the sign ?
I spy…I know, I know… A pagan myth that steals the show, When ev’ry ancient hero born Was heralded before the morn. I know what doubters see: That stars are stars, so let them be.
Rhyming Couplets 