the astronomer

Poem #42 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.

Back to Bachelard and me – Introduction


he can ride the sighting
from his telescope
to the dying heart
of betelgeuse
in orion

describe the horseshoe shape
of one particular
in a nebula

tell about
the galaxies
so very many galaxies
away beyond
the milky way

at night
he glances at the sky
knows a shooting star
to be a meteor

the ups and downs
dips and mountains
of the craters
that pock the moon

but when he steps
inside his house
when work is done
the world that he touches
is a stranger

he cannot see
the corded lines
of accumulating dust motes
edging the walls
of his hallway

doesn’t realise that his bed
has not been made today
or yesterday
or
whenever

there’s no food
on the fridge shelf
but he thinks he recalls
a sandwich
maybe
at lunchtime

all he knows
for sure
is the mental guide
well worn
to the cupboard
that holds his whisky
and a cut-glass tumbler

there’s no ice
again

but the whisky bites him
hard enough
to forget
that on the rocks
was once the way
he liked it best
and anyway

and anyway
soon enough
he’ll fall to bed
he’ll go to sleep

until his sky rises again
when he can sit astride
his saddle
one eye to the viewfinder
and ride the glance
of his telescope
to look deep
this time
at alpha a

and maybe
if he’s lucky
alpha b


© Frank Prem 2017

Bachelard and me Poem #43: holding close to beauty

2 thoughts on “the astronomer

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