James Somersett

copley
Head of a Negro by John Copley

James Somersett

“Granville Sharp the abolitionist and Lord Mansfield of the King’s Bench are well known, but the eponymous defendant is more of a mystery.”

The Sunday Items

He ran from the court
To the door of his champion,
Slaved no more,
And he knocked on the door of his champion
To show he was free –
He ran from the court and he ran from our history.

Did James and Granville then
Shake hands like proper gentlemen ?
Did they embrace, perhaps,
In a quite un-English way ?
We cannot say,
For James is never heard agen.

Did he and Granville,
As they bid goodbye,
Look in one-another’s eye
And share a smile and knowing nod
That seemed to subtly imply
“We’ve started something here, by God !”

Maybe he died that very day,
Or lived another three long score,
Maybe rich, maybe poor –
He went about his way.
The last we see of James
Is at that door.

Superheavies

new elements

Superheavies

Smashing atoms into atoms,
Gee, that looks like fun !
And easy-peasy with the lightest ones –
Just ask the Sun.
But when they get more bloated,
It gets hard to make them kiss –
They should be bigger targets,
But incredibly – they miss !

Or else they break each other up,
They fizz instead of fuse –
But smash and smash and smash again,
And finally, they’ll schmooz.
Just one or two or half-a-dozen
Made in once, we think,
Before they break apart again
In quicker than a blink.

But then…but there’s a secret doubt
That lingers round the lab –
For did we really, truly make ’em
With our smash and grab ?
Was all of that momentum dissipated
From each core
Before they spat some neutrons out
And were themselves no more ?

Was the Strong Force strong and forceful
In all nuclei
For that thousanth of a second
That it took each fluke to die ?
And have they really earned their place
Upon the sacred Table,
Without a single isotope between them
Pure and stable ?

And yet, who gets to say what form
An atom occupies ?
And must they hang on long enough
To boil or oxidise ?
It looks as if this argument
Is set to run and run…
But smashing atoms into atoms ?
Gee, that looks like fun !

Elements above urnium are all man-made, although no doubt a few superheavies are spat out of a supernova, they’ll decompose before any future star system coalesces from its dandruff. But the real reason they’re man-made because this area of research seems to be little more than willy-waving, (and that’s something best left to the biologists).

Ununoctium

uuo

Ununoctium

Hurray for element one-one-eight !
For the briefest of fractions of briefest of seconds
A handful of atoms held just enough protons –
And lo !, the Nobels and the Naming Rights beckoned.

By why stop the searching, oh lab-mates ?
The legend’ry Isles of Stability lay
Just over the Period Bound’ry, they say,
Where fusion-forged atoms don’t wilt and decay !
So on with colliding, oh lab-mates !
We’ll find a few more, by-and-by,
And if they’re as fleeting, we’ll keep on repeating –
We’ll keep chucking atoms till funding runs dry !

Huzzah for element one-one-eight !
But will she prove to be our last ?,
With the Table so neat and the budgets so tight…
Fun while it lasted, though – truly a blast !

But don’t stop the searching, oh lab-mates !
Learning is never a wasted adventure !
So rustle up bursary, grant and debenture,
For Wisdom’s our master, and Knowledge our quencher !
So on with the atoms, oh lab-mates !
Let’s boost their ephemeral hearts
For better we sink all the budget on trinkets
Than letting the generals split ’em apart.

Element Uuo has since been named as Oganesson (a far less interesting name) when it was proved that a handful of atoms were forced into being for an instant before decaying away with a half-life of 0.89 millisecond. Can I just point out that much like energy, public finances for scientific research is a zero-sum game…

Obey in All Things your Masters According to the Flesh

haiti
Battle of Vertières by Ulrich Jean-Pierre

Obey in All Things your Masters According to the Flesh

When even Jesus shrugs his shoulders,
Utters not a word ag’enst,
And Paul is rooting with the holders
Over people bought and fenced –
All these chattels in their fetters
Must submit unto their betters.
God had cursed the sons of Ham –
So help yourself – he just don’t give a damn.

And thus were Haitians much maligned
By France, the Pope, and even God,
(Who spat upon their Negro kind
And swore to keep them ’neath His rod.)
Till after ev’ry prayer had failed,
They struck a pact which countervailed –
It’s such a sorry state of works
When Satan saves and idle Jesus shirks.

A Year without a Summer

blur branches depth of field dry leaves
Photo by Markus Spiske temporausch.com on Pexels.com

A Year without a Summer

April was sulky this year,
And May was too shy,
And June was a truant who failed to appear,
And then came the tantrums of jealous July,
And August was but an imposter
Who left us quite sober,
And as for September, it seems we had lost her –
And soon we were greeting the gloom of October.

So where had our Summer gone, all Summer long ?
Hiding above the clouds, he was.
His rain was heavy, his wind was strong,
And as to why – well, just because…
But that is the way of the weather, we say,
He’s always been fickle round here –
When all four seasons are met in a day,
Yet no Summer met in a year.

Not a comment on this year’s actual weather, just a general mope when we get a bit of rain.

Nom de Guerre

duel
Duel !  by

Nom de Guerre

Somewhere out there,
I’m not solitaire,
Cos somebody’s sharing my name.
An unaware pair, we are,
Not quite so rare, we are –
Feels so unfair, but there’s on-one to blame.
I must share a claim
To some unwitting fame –
I ought not to care,
But it still seems a shame:
With names going spare,
It is baffling, I swear,
That two of us bear one the same !

The Name Not Taken

names

The Name Not Taken

I always wanted to change my name –
But of course I never did.
I’d invent noms de plumes as a game, as a kid,
But be far too embarrassed to tell.
Instead I languished on in the hell
Of my parents’ choice – my nominal shame.
And I never gave voice to my secret name –
The pseudonym that I never became.

But hey, we cannot help the way we’re christened,
And parents cannot ever hope to guess –
And so we get their hand-me-downs
And grow to like them, more – or less.
And maybe also we’re conditioned
By these names with which we’re branded:
Bright Miss Pinks and drab Miss Browns –
We’re bound by handles that we’re handed !

I always wanted to change my name,
But of course I never will.
Though who needs shelter more from unsought fame
Than the bashful-still ?
So my lovingly-crafted pseudonym
Is firmly kept inside,
And it’s too late now to allude to him –
I could never be him if I tried.

The Sidekick

animation black blur box
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The Sidekick

I’ll never be the star of the show
Well, I’ve always known, I guess –
You smile, and never tell me no,
And you never tell me yes.
You don’t commit, then don’t arrive,
You never notice what you’ve done.
I shrug it off, to best survive,
And tell myself it’s not a shun.
You always have excuses, sure,
And good excuses, without question,
Why, so sorry, must ignore
My ev’ry invite and suggestion.
All my life, I’ve followed behind
(When I’m even invited at all),
And all of you smile, with never a mind
To the flower you shoved by the wall.

Plenty to Crow About

crow

Plenty to Crow About

I wonder why crows are never a pet ?
They’re stately and friendly – and clever ?  You bet !
But less of a songbird, more of a gloater,
Less a soprano and more a deep-throater.
But let them by boastful, they’ve sure earned the right –
As bright as the day and as black as the night.

I wonder why crows are so out-of-favour ?
Always an omen, never a saviour,
Always a stranger and never a buddy,
Forever the raven’s understudy.
But crows are urban and on the rise
As bright as the streets and as black as the skies.

Golden in the Fall

autumn autumn colours brown countryside
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Golden in the Fall

The leaves are falling down again,
They do so ev’ry year
It doesn’t mean a thing to you and I.
The days are full of wind and rain,
But we are not, my dear –
It is eternal Spring for you and I.

If trees have lost their beauty,
Then I guess they felt the need,
But we are still perennial and pure.
And even if we’re fruity,
Well, we sure ain’t gone to seed –
We’re nothing like Autumnal, that’s for sure !

The leaves are falling down again,
The boughs bear only rooks,
Or else are torn and splintered by the storm.
The frost may star the windowpane,
The ice may sheet the brook,
But we’ll just snuggle closer, safe and warm.

If days are getting shorter,
Then our nights are getting longer,
And the season’s chill is firmly kept outdoors.
I don’t see why we oughta
Be beholden – we are stronger
Than the puny pull of Autumn’s metaphores.