The stars still shine on us
as they did on Uraniburg;
at least until they meet our arrogant modern halo...
Do they remember that moody man
who saw clearer than so many before
and yet could not see past belief to find the truth in seeing?
And did that man
as he stomped around his fortress
ever think on the god
who gave him eyes to map the heavens
and a fevered brain that left him just
an ever-present glue box
to prevent his silver nose from sliding off?
This is part of a longer poem (or a cycle, if you want to think of it that way) called Morph that I wrote a number of years ago. I'll often group poems with related -- or occasionally contrasting -- themes together just because I like the idea of juxtaposition.
Having said that, I'm not in the mood to type the rest of it today. Maybe I'll add it piece by piece... or maybe I'll be difficult and just not bother. We'll see.
Oh, and what's with the nose thing? Well, for that and his inability to completely let go of the Ptolemaic system in his thinking despite what his observations were showing, it's easier to give you a link to Tycho Brahe than to type a shorter version. In a nutshell, he was a genius but also very human. And who can resist writing a poem about a metal nose, really?
Most people, I suppose. I just happen to not be one of them.