Skywatching 3 – Watching the Stars Go By

Watching the Stars Go By

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…

Skywatching 2 – Look Up, Look Quick !

main sequence

Look Up, Look Quick !

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.

Gegenschein

gegenschein

Gegenschein

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.

Ode to Laze

alone bed bedroom blur
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Ode to Laze

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.

A Litter of Angels

up pig

A Litter of Angels

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.

Corona Borealis

titian
detail from Bacchus & Ariadne by Titian

Corona Borealis

“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.

I Am the Artefact

pottery

I Am the Artefact

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.

Monotongue

tongue

Monotongue

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.

Middle-Class Decline

people in train
Photo by Rishiraj Singh Parmar on Pexels.com

Middle-Class Decline

The world goes by on its way to work,
Quite happy – well happy enough, anyway –
Where poetry books are barely a quirk,
So little do they enter the fray
Of the working world in its working week
To render it a freak to thus
See one being read on the bus.
With sales so low and style so high,
They see no need to try to fathom out
Just what some faff-about is trying to say.
Those pseudy slims are best ignored
By the sensibly-shod of the hurrying horde
On a busy and bullshit-less day.

What they need is football, and punk rock, and thrillers,
And X-Box, and coffee, and soaps, and painkillers
And roses, and downloads, and sheds full of spanners,
And gardens with blue tits, and holiday planners,
And magazine fashions and diet’ry trends
And so many relatives, hook-ups and friends,
So is it a wonder they haven’t the time
For the nuance of slam or the absence of rhyme ?
And the world goes by on its way back home,
Too busy for chapbooks of monochrome.