MY DIGS ON DISTANT ENCELADUS

by Martin Elster

A pair of scientists from the Southwest Research Institute (SwRI) were members of a James Webb Space Telescope (JWST) team that observed a towering plume of water vapor stretching over 6,000 miles — a distance comparable to that between the U.S. and Japan — erupting from the surface of Saturn’s moon, Enceladus. This notable discovery, achieved during NASA JWST’s Cycle 1, has led to Dr. Christopher Glein of SwRI being granted a Cycle 2 allocation to examine both the plume and crucial chemical compounds on the surface, in an effort to better comprehend the possible habitability of this oceanic celestial body. —SciTechDaily, July 20, 2023

With ample geothermal activity,

sparkling geysers, and waterways that flow

below a glaze of purest H2O,

Enceladus is the perfect place for me.

Throughout those rows of rage on Mercury,

during those catlike spats of spite on Venus,

even as a universe grew between us,

this speck of dust was waiting just for me.

Though much too far from the sun for vitamin D,

with monumental subterranean seas

and a balmy minus three hundred thirty degrees,

this moon’s the ideal hideaway for me.

One hundred gushing geysers feed the “E,”

the greatest of those radiant rings of Saturn

which fashion such a pleasurable pattern,

this is the quintessential moon for me.

I skate the grooves of Samarkand or ski

down Ali Baba and Aladdin, bounce

and bounce and bounce as though I weigh an ounce

here on this satellite so right for me.

Beneath the ice, an awesome panoply

of beings surely bathe. It must be so!

One way or another I will go

beneath the ice. Great exploits wait for me!

One that has risen, curled around my knee,

my house-trained and obedient caecilian

like magic turns from cyan to vermillion,

a blind and limbless thing quite fond of me.

This moon is much too minuscule to see,

although it gleams so loudly, I must wear 

my sunglasses to tolerate the glare

peculiar to this rock just right for me,

a home away from home where I am free

to shiver like a chickadee from the dearth

of warmth on a dismal dot so far from Earth.

It’s how I like it. It’s the spot for me!

The winner of the 2022 Helen Schaible International Sonnet Contest, Martin Elster comes from Hartford, CT, where he studied percussion and composition at the Hartt School of Music and performed with the Hartford Symphony Orchestra. Martin, whose poetry has been strongly influenced by his musical sensibilities, has written two books, the latest of which is Celestial Euphony (Plum White Press, 2019).

THE GREAT CONJUNCTION

by Barbara Simmons

“Shot using the decade old Canon 60D and 75-300mm by stacking 25 shots on the Conjunction with the same frame but varying focus. I am obsessed with Saturn and that’s where the prime focus is.” —Tweet by Sajal Chakraborty @sajaldreamworks

Bundled up and with binoculars, we are contemporary

versions of Ptolemy and Aglaonice, 

standing on our driveway, necks tilted back, our bodies a bipod

for our binoculars, finding the yellowish crescent of December’s moon,

and what we think might be the great conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn.

Maybe it’s because we often are not part of something bigger than

ourselves, because we’ve missed the comet tails and then eclipses,

not standing in the hemisphere that’s best for viewing, 

we’ve kept our celestial appointment, keeping company with Genghis Khan

800 years ago, who also watched this joining in the skies.

There are, of course, glow-in-the-dark star stickers we'd placed

on our son’s ceiling when he was so little that he’d really thought

the sky had entered to illuminate his bedtime.  And, then there are the

many other simultaneous occurrences that are joinings:

the House and Senate, the King and Queen, the lords and ladies,

the earth and sea, the heavens and earth, the living and the dead,

the unspoken and the thought, the unsaid and the truth, 

the haves and the have-nots, the remembered, the forgotten,

until we hear, you and me, from friends that what we thought

we'd seen could not have been both Jupiter and Saturn, but only

one of them, given where we live.  So, you and I, conjoined now

for some years, made a decision and decided that your and my eyes

had seen the great conjunction, and like the Christmas Star, 

we will believe in something larger than ourselves, needing to

in times when either/or has reigned too long, and

like all good conjunctions, this conjoining, not choosing one or other,

a great conjunction, Jupiter and Saturn,

is how we’ll complete this 2020 year, allusion always

to a greater sight, and now, helps us to see a new night sky.

Barbara Simmons grew up in Boston, now resides in San Jose, California—the two coasts inform her poetry. A graduate of Wellesley, she received an MA in The Writing Seminars from Johns Hopkins. Retired, she savors smaller parts of life and language, exploring words as ways to remember, envision, celebrate, mourn, always trying to understand more about human-ity. Publications have included, among others, Santa Clara Review, Hartskill Review, Boston Accent,  The New Verse News, Soul-Lit, 300 Days of Sun, Writing it Real, Capsule Stories: Isolation Edition and Autumn Burning Edition, and OASIS.

TALKING ABOUT TREES

by Bonnie Naradzay

The Great Conjunction of 2020 will brighten the darkest day of the year as the two giant planets of our solar system draw closer together in the night sky than they have been in centuries. By chance, the day that Jupiter and Saturn will appear closest for Earth-based stargazers is Dec. 21, the winter solstice, which is the longest night of the year in the northern hemisphere. Photo: The galactic core area of the Milky Way over Maskinonge Pond in Waterton Lakes National Park, Alberta on July 14, 2020. Jupiter is the bright object at left, with Saturn dimmer to the left (east) of Jupiter.Alan Dyer / Universal Images Group via Getty Images file via NBC, December 9, 2020.

What kind of times are they, when

A talk about trees is almost a crime

Because it implies silence about so many horrors?                       

—Bertolt Brecht, “To those Born Later”

 

Thin ice limned the pond early this morning

and a slick of frost dazzled the green fields

yet pink blossoms still drifted across a few limbs

of the lone ornamental cherry tree.

In the slant of sun, the great blue heron stood

knee deep in water, and ducks have returned

among reflected shapes of pondside trees – 

bare branches outstretched like hands of penitents.

I have been arguing all evening with my friend

via email about Odysseus. He says Odysseus 

could have built that raft any time he wanted 

to escape from Calypso’s island, but I say not until

Athena persuaded Zeus to send Hermes down.  

I see Odysseus down by the seashore, weeping there,

as the great hexameters roll out in the receding waves.

Then we spar about the Suitors. They must be killed, 

he says, for their conspiracy. I ask, what about diplomacy?  

(It is Advent. The people are armed for insurrections here, 

spouting obscenities. “Sir, have you no sense of decency,” 

someone finally asked McCarthy, not so long ago.)  

My friend mentions Thersites. He has me there.

Jesus healed the blind man and asked him what he saw.

He said, “I see men like trees walking.”

Tonight I see two planets grow closer in the night sky.

(I have grown numb about the latest attacks

on civility.) Priam came for Hector’s body 

in the dead of night. Achilles welcomed him

and stopped the war for Hector’s funeral rites.

Recently I read about the Christmas truce in World War I

for the burial of the dead. Someone brought lights.

Yes, there will also be singing. About the dark times.

       

Bonnie Naradzay's recent poems are in AGNI, the American Journal of Poetry, New Letters (Pushcart nomination), RHINO, Tar River Poetry, EPOCH, Tampa Review, Kenyon Review Online, Potomac Review, Xavier Review, and One Magazine. For many years she has led poetry workshops at a day shelter for the homeless and at a retirement center, both in Washington, DC.                                          

THE ALIGNMENT

by David Chorlton

The view of the five classical planets -- Mercury to Saturn -- improves over the next week or two as Mercury climbs higher and grows brighter. Image by Roen Kelly. — Astronomy, Jan. 25, 2016. 

The view from the window early
is of a street before awakening
where a single porch light glows
beneath five planets aligned
in the pre-dawn universe.
                       The tabloids
have yet to strip naked
and campaigns for public office
are on hold while Jupiter
assumes its ancient role
as god of thunder,
                       withholding
its power in deference
to the moment’s calm. Stock markets
are yet to make a first transaction,
waiting for a signal from Mercury,
god of finance
                       and of tricks,
glowing seductively
next to Venus, who’s worried
about Saturn always trying
to invoke some revelry
                       but who, in his role
promoting freedom, can’t help
feeling glum about the way
speech has been confused
with wealth. The sky
                       is a deceptive calm
today, considering the constant proximity
of Mars, the god of war
who never rests.


David Chorlton is a transplanted European, who has lived in Phoenix since 1978. His poems have appeared in many publications on- and off-line, and reflect his affection for the natural world, as well as occasional bewilderment at aspects of human behavior. His most recent book A Field Guide to Fire was his contribution to the Fires of Change exhibition shown in Flagstaff and Tucson in Arizona.