What follows is a poem about the Voyager spacecraft I wrote a long time ago, when the world and I were very different than we are today. For a multisensory experience, you can read along while listening to a splendid set-to-space-noise version here.
Barnard's Star
I send my heartbeat to you,
and the sum-song of my dreams.
Someday you'll unpack the impulses,
the muscle-clicks like cooling cars.
Through endless fields of fire and dust
we send whale song, one noisy kiss.
Bach. A baby's cry.
Every other romance will wane
and waste away; symphonies are lost
without their listeners.
Even the whale reduces
to a cage of bone and air.
But fast to you, bright Ophiuchus,
one whispered love is dancing.
*
I have thousands of unpublished words on my computer about Voyager, about hope, about Druyan and Sagan, about the pretty stories we tell ourselves and one another. This isn’t the place or the moment for any of it. This is a moment for finding proof good things are still possible, that everything’s not lost. For choosing awe and wonder. For reaching toward one another.
Life and illness have gotten the better of me lately, so this’ll be my last LWON post for the foreseeable future. But even if I’m out of sight, that doesn’t mean I’m gone. I’ll be out there, picking my way through the black and blue, breaking down, one piece at a time, but always full of love.
Thank you to the People of LWON for letting me ride along these last few years. It’s been an honor.
And thank you, whoever you are, for reading. For being here.
*
Astrophotography by Dev Benjamin via Unsplash. Audio by Squid Pro Crow, a.k.a. Grant Balfour and me.
As you lay ill, recall that you’re not alone; lots of us read your words.
Voyager is such a wonderful choice of metaphor. I think often about how it is an object of transcendent meditative reflection that we humanists can share.
It’s waaaaaaay out there, and it’s real, and it is ours.
Beep… beep… beep…
Thank you—that means a lot. (Beep beep)
After 45 years of working in astronomy and cosmology, I no longer go to the observatory for long nights of fighting with itchy computers and cirrus clouds sneaking by overhead, watching exploding stars brighten and darken. When I had the chance, I stepped outside into the warm Chilean night, let my eyes settle into the darkness, and gazed to the sky. Now I do that from my porch here in Texas, having retired from the university. I feel the sense you do, perhaps, that as I look into that darkness, I feel myself being projected outward, following the path of Voyager and my thoughts, the Universe of stars welcoming my presence and reflecting something back to me.
Wonder can transcend all emotions. We have never met, but I wish you well on your journey and hope to learn of your voyage when you return.
Oh Nick. I love the idea of you heading out into the stars, and I hope you’ll always come back to us again.
Thank you so much, Nick. I agree completely. One of the paradoxical delights of Voyager is how its journey away from our planet brings us together—quietly, and individually, perhaps, in contemplation, but together in awe. (And blog comments.) I’m wishing you all the stars.