The Old Astronomer to His Pupil
One of my favorite poems.
Months after I intended to get serious about it, here I am getting serious about Substack.
Here’s my serious face
The early part of 2024 has been mad busy for me, mostly because of some ongoing veterinary drama with one of my cats. He appears to be fine now (knock on wood) so things are settling down again, and I’m able to turn my attention more consistently to my goal of building up an audience beyond the reach of any publisher and entirely in my own hands, which mostly means Substackin’, podcastin’, and vloggin’. I hate that I have to use the term “vlog” because I distinctly remember having a discussion with a friend, back in the ancient era of the mid-2000s, about how much we hated the word “blog” and then when “vlog” came along, we hated it even more. I love a good portmanteau, but blog and vlog aren’t clever portmaneaux; they just sound like the noises a slime mold would make if a slime mold could make a noise.
But you know, it’s a dumb fucking dumb-dumb who fights needlessly against the current, so whatever; vlog it is. And I suppose Selfie on the Edge of Forever is a blog, which will soon also have a vlog component, so the internet has won and I have surrendered. But I have been having a lot of fun making my videos and you’ll start seeing them (daily!) very soon, and I really hope they bring something a little different and enjoyable to your life.
Anyway. For the past few weeks, I’ve had lines from this poem drifting through my head. I don’t really know why, but then, I never know why I occasionally get on a “The Old Astronomer to His Pupil” kick. It’s just a thing that happens to me from time to time, usually points in my life that later turn out to be significant in some way—turning points, liminal phases, at the edges of big breakthroughs. Something about the musical scansion of this poem, or perhaps something about its imagery (caught in a state of ecstatically uncomfortable suspension between the materialistic and the mystical) has always appealed to me on a very deep level. I had an interesting conversation with my publisher a few days ago, and with my good friend B., a reluctant yet very talented remote viewer/channeler/medium/nobody’s really sure what to call it, least of all B., and from the funny confluence of these two conversations, I expect good and satisfying and creative and right things to proceed very soon. I am ready to put my hand upon the door and turn that knob, whenever the door presents itself. I am trying to wait with patience (never an easy thing for me.)
On that somewhat cryptic note (welcome to my blogvlog; it will be cryptic indeed, since that’s what the inside of my weird head is like), please enjoy the loveliness of one of the loveliest poems ever written. This is “Twilight Hours,” or “The Old Astronomer to His Pupil” by Sarah Williams, written in 1868. My prayer to the Universe is that my own words might live on for more than a hundred and fifty years, still inspiring significance and a deeper meaning in the hearts of those who receive them.
Reach me down my Tycho Brahe, I would know him when we meet,
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;
He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how
We are working to completion, working on from then to now.
Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete,
Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet,
And remember men will scorn it, 'tis original and true,
And the obliquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.
But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn,
You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn,
What for us are all distractions of men's fellowship and wiles;
What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles.
You may tell that German College that their honor comes too late,
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant's fate.
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.
What, my boy, you are not weeping? You should save your eyes for sight;
You will need them, mine observer, yet for many another night.
I leave none but you, my pupil, unto whom my plans are known.
You "have none but me," you murmur, and I "leave you quite alone"?
Well then, kiss me, -- since my mother left her blessing on my brow,
There has been a something wanting in my nature until now;
I can dimly comprehend it, -- that I might have been more kind,
Might have cherished you more wisely, as the one I leave behind.
I "have never failed in kindness"? No, we lived too high for strife,
Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into our life;
But your spirit is untainted, I can dedicate you still
To the service of our science: you will further it? you will!
There are certain calculations I should like to make with you,
To be sure that your deductions will be logical and true;
And remember, "Patience, Patience," is the watchword of a sage,
Not to-day nor yet to-morrow can complete a perfect age.
I have sown, like Tycho Brahe, that a greater man may reap;
But if none should do my reaping, 'twill disturb me in my sleep
So be careful and be faithful, though, like me, you leave no name;
See, my boy, that nothing turn you to the mere pursuit of fame.
I must say Good-bye, my pupil, for I cannot longer speak;
Draw the curtain back for Venus, ere my vision grows too weak:
It is strange the pearly planet should look red as fiery Mars,
God will mercifully guide me on my way amongst the stars.
