Tycho's Nose

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?

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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?

Um...

Most people, I suppose. I just happen to not be one of them.

Sketchbook doodle

I've been pretty lazy about drawing lately (I've been pretty lazy about a lot of things, really. I should do something about that), so for lack of anything more recent to fill space with I've taken a few shots of one of my field sketchbooks. Nothing terribly exciting, as you can see, but it might help illustrate the thought process, if nothing else.

As usual (and if you're desperate to read my scribbles. If you are desperate to read my scribbles I'd wonder about you, but whatever floats your boat), click on the picture to enlarge it.

Blue

Too hot this time to think about thinking
so I float along in the hammock
hands shading eyes
watching poplar leaves shimmer in the sun
like shards of Tiffany glass
wrapped up in the silken blue of a
perfect Alberta summer sky

My uncle
who has lived too long away
tells me we live in Big Sky Country
and take it for granted, the blue
that goes on until forever on these days
when the air hardly moves
and even the farthest horizon is highlighted
across blonde canola blooms

I didn't know myself
until I found me enclosed for a time
in the grey of an artificial jungle
(and saw my eyes turn concrete to match)
how much of what I am
depends on days

of still, hot summers
scattered with green
and yellow
and perfect, open skies
touching endless fields
with neverending blue

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A bit early to post a summer poem, I suppose, but yesterday's temperature put me in the mood.

This one is supposed to be rambling and lazy, so the near lack of punctuation is on purpose. Just picture swinging in the hammock, enjoying a warm day and a clear blue sky.

The open, blue sky is something about Alberta that I'd miss terribly if I ever moved. I've visited other places, obviously, and it's amazing how much the lack of a good sky can close a person in. I'd swear, it's almost a claustrophobic world for those of you who don't get the chance to really enjoy your sky.

Prickles and Poisons

That is your choice in the world:
Energy is finite,
And you can use it for barricades
or bitterness.
Either way, something will always
find a route around defences,
And you must discover a way to coexist
or be harvested alone.

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This was more thinking out loud than anything else. The idea comes from plants, actually. They have two main methods of defence (physical things like thorns or chemical things like bad tastes or poisons), and energy expended on one isn't available to be used on the other. Prickly things often aren't (very) poisonous, and vice versa.

Extrapolate that to life in general, and... well, you get the idea. We all have our choices.

Chokecherry in pen and ink

Am I the only one who wonders why it's always pen AND ink? Shouldn't the ink part be understood? I mean, it's not like the pen does a whole helluva lot without the ink.

Anyway.

This is a chokecherry branch done with an old-style dip pen. Kind of silly, really. I own a decent pigment pen; why would I bother with a drippy dip pen in preference to a neat nylon tip?

No idea.

And at least it's not another tulip doodle.