Henry Russell’s first published plot from 1913. (It was later discovered that Ejnar Hertzsprung has published something similar in 1911, hence the shared credit.)
M-K-G-F-A-B-O
Doktor Hertzsprung, Doctor Russell, Why is your diagram such a tussle ? Why is your axis the wrong way round, Higher to lower, bluer to redder ? Does it reveal some secret profound, Hotter to cooler, younger to deader ? Your sweeping main sequence is mirrored about, Your plot’s lost the plot, and your graph’s up the spout.
Actually, I’m being a little unfair here. The original plot was absolute magnitude (aka luminosity) on the y-axis, and the peak wavelength of light on the x (or ‘spectral type’). Since high-energy blue light has many more waves in the same distance as lower-energy red light, so the length between peaks in red light is longer, and thus a higher number. (Incidentally, Omicron2 Eriadne B was the first white dwarf discovered in 1910.)
When it was later realised that the wavelengths directly related to surface tempurature, the latter was substituted, but now the numbers were going down instead of up, and nobody bothered to flip it. But thanks to the wonders of the internet, I was able to rustle up the following:
I took a wrong turn on the radio dial To the land of the Dixie-Sue, So I dallied awhile in a banjo style With the folk where the grass grows blue. But hearing each someone-done-someone-wrong song, Just left me unlonesome and quite without tear – I felt like a tourist who didn’t belong, So I moseyed on back to my old lithosphere – It was flinty and solid, If frequently squalid, And men only wept to change key. Who needed some twangs And their heartstrings in pangs ? Not me, no siree ! Golly gee !
I sought-out guitars that were not made of steel, But rather of air and of lead – And cranked to eleven their distorted squeals That thrashed to the beat in my head. But hearing each someone-shagged-somebody song Just weighed on my mojo and sold-out my soul some – I felt like a local who needs to move on, Back to the pastures of home-cooked and wholesome. My boots were a-struttin’ My whiskers were juttin’ I felt like a born-again new-kid in town. Oh Lord, I was comin’, My spirit was strummin’, And ready to let go an’ hoedown on down.
So after awhile, I retuned the dial Past all of the hipsters and nerds, To the land where the Rhinestone Jesuses smile, And ev’ryone hears all the words. And I reckon I coulda been lost to those prudes, But I have to be true to my roots in the end – I’m nobody’s sunbeam – I’m one of the dudes ! I’m spawn of the Devil (I like to pretend) ! The power chords called out, My godliness crawled out, And soon I was grunting the plank-spanker’s song. I’ve ceased all my questing in country & western – Don’t cry for me, Mama, I’m where I belong !
I woke that morning, I recall, Surprised somewhat I woke at all – And out my window, plain to see, My street was smoky-ruins-free. In fact, so fine a morning shone, My coat I had no call to don – The larks still sang, the doves still perched, And nowhere sulphur rained, nor zombies lurched.
I walked on through that wrathless dawn, Alive ! Alive and springing ! I gaped for lack of demon-spawn, Alive ! Alive and swinging ! I fed the ducks, I named the clouds, I mingled with bewildered crowds – We wore no coats, we wore no shrouds, Alive ! Alive and singing ! Our lives would never be the same, That day that Jesus never came.
I gawped that morning, hollered out, Surprised I had the breath to shout I danced with gnats, I waltzed with trees, I hugged the rain and kissed the breeze. I cried with strangers, wept with folk, I stuttered ev’ry word I spoke – I didn’t care, I couldn’t mind, I thanked the Lord that I was left behind.
I ran on through that wretchless day, Alive ! Alive and wheeling ! I laughed for lack of human prey, Alive ! Alive and reeling ! I leapt, I skipped or simply stood, I didn’t care for ought or should – I sang and sang because I could, Alive ! Alive and feeling ! Our lives were ours ! There was no shame, That day that Jesus never came.
Chatting to Ciaci, Her cattiness catchy, She’s dressed in Apache, And sipping Chartreuse. And Chach ain’t so scratchy, Or haggard and latchkey – He knows how to catch La Tchatcheuse.
He offers his arm, for He knows how to charm her, And though just a farmer, He sure can seduce. She cha-chas with Ciaci, The natch from Karachi, And soon he shall snatch La Tchatcheuse.
I watch them a while Admiring their style, But I don’t think I’ll Be goosing their deuce. I leave her to Ciaci, Her bold mariachi, Defending his patch: La Tchatcheuse.
But after their cha-cha, He makes his departure. She orders an Archers And cranberry juice. And still she is dancing, And I chance a glancing – She has me entranced, La Tchatcheuse.
I watch as this cutie Persists in her duty – She boots up her booty, And boosts her caboose. I so want to join her, But others purloin her. Don’t fall for their coin, La Tchatcheuse !
For one day I’ll ask her, And one day she’ll answer – And I’ll be her dancer And then we’ll cut loose. But right now, I tip her And try to stay chipper – I’ll wait for your lips, La Tchatcheuse !
1. Ten thousand hours, and for what ? To competently plink and drone In time, in tune – but that’s my lot: Just strumming to the gramophone, Cos covers is all I’ve ever got – I’ve no new tunes of my own.
And actually, I must have sung Ten thousand hours, and thousands more, And still my voice is lowly strung. I’ve had it with this urban lore ! I’m glad I haven’t yet begun To waste my time to learn the score !
2. There was a time when music-lovers Rarely dined on the food of love. Before the wireless or phonograph, You needed an orchestra on staff. Before they built the Pianola, Only a pianist could get enough. For ev’ryone else, it’s chiming clocks, Or the barrel organ and music box.
3. Imagine a song. Any song, Just as long as you love it. Imagine that song was heard once, And then never again. Imagine that song is now gone, But you know that you love it But cannot recall a damn note ! Refrain the refrain.
So when you turn to pray in the facing-Mecca way Do you use the Great Circles or the Rhumbs ? Though both have got it wrong – for the route that’s shortest-long Shall be plumbing through the mantel as she comes.
You gave me seeds to scatter In the ground beneath my plum – A lover’s gift for growing, And for shooing Winter glum. Just sow them and forget them, And with any-colour thumb, And these blue and tiny flowers Sprout a little straggly scrum – Yet year-on-year, these self-seed parts Make up a spreading sum – These almost-weeds, not worth the dig, Are no chrysanthemum ! You gave me some forget-me-nots – And later called me scum. I’ve tried so hard to wipe the slate – Yet ev’ry Spring, they come.
This poem was inspired by one by Dino Mahoney – I basically took his idea and added rhymes.
Saint George & The Dragon by the Salviati Workshop, Woolwich Garrison church
For England & St George
Up in Heaven-on-the-Clouds You works on our behalf, Pushing through the saintly crowds To bat for Halifax and Bath, And bring to Lynn and Dale of Borrow Sun today and jam tomorrow.
Working hard in Upper Eden, Pushing England’s cause. You wouldn’t get the saint of Sweden Cheering on so many wars. Rule Britannia, Hope & Glory – Welcome to the national story.
Tea and crumpets, trains and cricket, Stratford to South Shields. There you lurk, on moor and thicket, Anglicising foreign fields. Who needs Alban, Bede or Swithun ? Give us Bowie, Dench and Niven !
But wait, I hear the Genoese Have hired your service too – And Catalans, and Portuguese, And Greek and Germans join the queue – The Georgian and the Muscovite Are proud to sport your red and white.
And soldiers, archers, and the Scouts, Equestrians and knights, And farmers rearing sheep and sprouts Are likewise firmly in your sights. I do hope, George, with all this lot That England’s voice won’t be forgot.
And then there’s leprosy and plague, And syphilis to boot, But here your role is rather vague On how you earn your extra loot – Helping patients come to terms ? Or do you represent the germs ?
And back home in your country seat, Its lord is rarely seen – In ancient times, your sandalled feet Came nowhere near our mountains green. But hey, who cares from where you’ve strayed – For Englishmen aren’t born, but made.
You spend your days in Greater Blighty, Meeting with the Boss – Asking him to make us mighty, From Land’s End to Gerrard’s Cross You always done us proud, our George, When lobbying for Cheddar Gorge.
Along Acacia Drive, Through Elm Tree Road and Hollyside, And into Laurel Lane and Willow Mews, The civic cherries thrive – An orchard only one-tree wide, But threading through suburban avenues.
Before March has come, I see the cherry plums are out, Their branches full of flowers, keen to pop – I never see the plums – The pigeons scrump the lot, no doubt, Before they even get the chance to drop.
And just as those ones fade, The cherries-proper flush with pink, A very English taste of oriental. And yet, as they parade, I’ve never seen them fruit, I think – I guess that’s why they call them ornamental.
A burst of April snow, Confetti for an Easter bride, A blossoming before the leaves are built. They really make a show – They love to boast, all front and pride, Pretending like they’re never gonna wilt…
Of course, ere April’s out, They’re over for another year, And all that’s left are unimpressive trees. They are a Springtime shout, Before the moans and tuts appear To ask for dignified behaviour, please !
Which is a shame, I say, For here beneath each semi’s eaves They symbolise the middle-class at root – For all their youthful play, They settle down and spread their leaves And sire such oddly neat and waxy fruit.
“And, behold…the earth did quake, and the rocks rent; And the graves were opened; and many bodies of the saints which slept arose, And came out of the graves after his resurrection, and went into the holy city, and appeared unto many.”
– Matthew 27:51-53
And the very earth shook beneath us, And the sky came dark and the veil of the temple was rent – As the Son at last came to leave us, So the tombs where slept the saints were breached as He went. And there they sat, arisen yet still, Since so long dead, they patiently waited For a night and a day and a night until On Sunday morn, they arrived belated. Zombies on the loose, they come ! Zombies in Jerusalum !
And yet not a word was spoken, As He was interred by Joseph of Arimathea, Of other tombs that were broken – For surely he witnessed the quaking’s rough aftermath here ? For there they sat, arisen yet still, Awaiting the one who had yet to be buried – So lay Him within the sepulchre’s chill And roll up the stone, his soul long ferried. Zombies yet procrastinate, Zombies lurk and zombies wait.
And lo, not a word was spoken By the Marys on Sunday making their way to His tomb, As they passed all the saints newly woken, As another earth-tremor gave sanction to auto-exhume. No more they sat – unprisoned, unstill – Now great was their stagg’ring and groaning as any – As stumbling and jerking, they lurched down the hill To Jerusalem, to the marvel of many. Zombies, rotten of complexion ! Zombies join the Resurrection !
And never a word was spoken By the Twelve at the Pentecost, just a few weeks on, With their tongue-gabbling voices choken – Yet never to ask where now had the dead all gone ? Where now they sat ? Or risen they still ? Where went their mission, so silent of news ? What is the purpose they mean to fulfil ? Is this what is meant by Wandering Jews ? Zombies, born again through Christ ! Zombies, torn from Paradise !
And still not a word is spoken, And the puzzling verse is never read out in church. No statue or stained-glass token Celebrate animate saints as they stumble and lurch. And those who are sat in the pews quite still And pretend that the verse is a metaphor or test – I guess they haven’t the need or the will To admit to themselves that it might be a jest. Zombies, clinging to their mask, Zombies, too afraid to ask.
Rhyming Couplets 