Canals Of Mars

Faced with  a familiar problem, having written both blogs and poems about  canals  before, I figured my only recourse this week was to seek inspiration from the red planet.

Of course everybody nowadays, even flat-earthers, knows that there aren't canals on Mars. However, back in the nineteenth century, before the advent of photography, astronomers peering through their telescopes at Mars thought they identified what appeared to be a pattern of large linear features on the surface. Angelo Secchi, an Italian priest and amateur astronomer, was the first to apply the term 'canali ' (channels or gullies) in 1858. 

Some twenty years later in 1877 Giovanni Shiaparelli, another Italian but an astronomer by calling, produced the first map of what he perceived these 'canali ' to be. Of course the English-speaking world decided (mistakenly) to interpret the word as canal and it became a popular misconception that there was water on Mars. In 1894 the American astronomer Percival Lowell proposed the theory that this water came from seasonal melting of the planet's polar ice-caps and that it flowed through an elaborate system of irrigation waterways that could only be the construct of some advanced civilisation. He even created a super-real image of the canals of Mars (see below) which was widely published in newspapers and periodicals and the idea of intelligent, engineering Martians captured the public's imagination.

Mars as "imagined" by Percival Lowell

Following his initial pronouncement, Lowell wrote a series of books: 'Mars ' (1895), 'Mars And Its Canals ' (1905) and 'Mars As The Abode Of Life ' (1908). Schiaparelli for his part thought that Lowell's depiction of the 'canali ' of Mars was over-elaborated compared to his own original observation and charts (see below). He was also sceptical of the American's deductions and contended that the leap from what appeared to be a few channels or gullies to a full-blown hypothesis that they were man-made and carried water was just too fanciful. Good for Schiaparelli.

Mars as originally "mapped" by Schiaparelli

He was soon to be proved correct, when in 1909 more powerful telescopes were brought into play which not only saw no canals on Mars but were also able to photograph what they observed, so that the facts of the matter no longer relied upon eyewitness testimony. And by the time of WWI huge advances had been made in the science of spectroscopy which seemed to prove beyond doubt that there was no water vapour present in the atmosphere of the red planet. Canal theory debunked and case closed, you might have thought. 

Yes and no, for although most astronomers and scientists soon accepted that photographic evidence and spectroscopic analysis indicated neither water nor canals on Mars (Lowell and a few conspiracy theorists begged to differ), the popular imagination had been so fired up that novelists were reluctant to let such an intriguing idea go. Edgar Rice Burroughs (of 'Tarzan ' fame) led the way, featuring Martian irrigation waterways in his 1912 fiction 'A Princess Of Mars ' and its sequels. John Wyndham gave credence to those canals in 'Planet Plane ' in 1936  as did C.S. Lewis in his 1938 novel 'Out Of The Silent Planet ', and a host of less literary pulp sci-fi did the same. In fact fascination continued after WWII when Robert Heinlein's 'Red Planet ' of 1949 featured skating on frozen canals, and free-flowing canals were part of the landscape of Ray Bradbury's 'Martian Chronicles ' the following year.

Mars as photographed by NASA

It was only when the first space probes flew to Mars and sent back images and data that the concept of some sort of channels began to gain credence again in the scientific world but these were small formations, suggestive of dried up rivers (above) that had not been visible except from up close. So now the theory is that there may have been free flowing water on Mars at one time (or some other liquid element) but it has all evaporated aeons ago.

The conclusion has to be that our nearest planetary neighbour is probably as dead as it is red.... unless of course everyone is living deep underground in some fantastic hermetically sealed and self-sustaining paradise. 😉 

Given the events of the last seven days in the Middle East, excuse this latest poem for not being on theme. Its title fittingly quotes from John Milton's dramatic poem 'Samson Agonistes ' and it was prompted by one of many harrowing news reports filtering out of the beleaguered Palestinian city, this about the plight of blind children.

Eyeless In Gaza

I beseech the sky for peace please.

Even the squalid and fragile quiet

 

that has become this shadow life 

since terror last visited and white

 

phosphorus burned out my sight.

As death rains down again on the

wretched  enclave we call  home I

tremble once more, surrounded on

all sides by sounds of fear, of pain 

and  destruction, the tortured cries 

of agony and anger. We are helpless 

innocents in all this warring madness,

deprived of land, liberty, opportunity

while our oppressors enjoy milk and

 

honey. So many in our overcrowded

hell hole are just damaged children

and we suffer, the little children, how

we suffer...

Thanks for reading,  S ;-)

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A Mars a day.

For those of you that know, I have been getting some school days in as a Cover Supervisor lately. This is relevant to the blog for one reason and one reason alone, we’re running with ‘God of War’ for the theme.

Straight off then, I was drawn to Wikipedia and a never ending list of war gods. There are a lot of gods attributed to war, let me tell you. I get Monday though, so I’m starting with the easy one- Mars.

Being into the gods was always something I liked to think I was as a kid. I knew more than most year 5 kids at any given point on the subject of Egypt. I knew a hell of a lot about the Greeks for a long time thanks to an unhealthy obsession with a Theseus and the Minotaur VHS in the library. The Romans though, I never really was big on. It might be something to do with my year 4 teacher being off all year. Long term absence maybe, I should have known all about the Romans though.

I was of a ‘Mars a day’ generation. We got greedy over hyped up football boots and Pepsi Max. A chocolate bar was a reasonable price, as were decent comics and so, it was all pretty simple. We went to school, we learnt about something from a teacher and then we played out. I would say anyone of my age or above will relate to this general routine.

Something changed a few years after that. We became bombarded with ever-faster games consoles, we all got hooked up to the internet and, in the process of all of this, somehow learnt how to perform basic functions with an emphasis on speed and not thought. I think this perhaps is the reason why society is becoming such a negative place.

Now and again, we get people so intolerant of others, so misinformed or simply so volatile that they just pick the fights. For these people, they aren’t having the chocolate bar every day- they aren’t resting or playing half of the time either though. They have opted to have a rage.

It feels good to blow off steam, I’ll admit. I came quite close to punching a cantankerous old sod in the shop the other day, with his racist ideology. I’d have felt better if I did and though it doesn’t justify what happened in class, it maybe hints at a bigger picture- the under surface cracks that can appear in people.

To cut a long story short, I had a TA in who did more harm than good. How does this relate to my poetry blog? Well, I was so angry I’ve done one of those vent poems that gets written in a rage and never gets put anywhere. You can have a read below.  

Shakespeare said, in his introduction to Henry IV that ‘The speed with which falsehood travels was a classical commonplace’.  He is saying here a very similar thing to the much attributed ‘…before the truth can put its boots on’ line we all have heard before. That one moment of losing the plot by the TA though (in some part the fault of the seven kids in the corridor), well, it has forced something out of me and though I’ll leave the school details out, I wasn’t a happy chappy, put it that way.

We can all have a Mars a day. Make your Mars a chocolate one, or something else you enjoy (vegan alternative for me)- there really is no need to rock the boat all the time. I’ll leave you with that. I’m ranting.

The chain forgot that we exist

And talk of work like all the rest

That through our agencies we know

The schools to jump at,  the ones to say No

Way, Jose! Multicultural madness mushrooms

Chairs thrown by boys at the kid you detest

Whose dad is a racist, and the thug doesn’t think

that to risk stepping in means you’ve sexually groomed

The future Young Offender institute’s top detainee

I’d drive the little wretches out, one by one in assembly

For we talk about the day we’ve had at work and realise

There is madness in the youth, something is missing in their eyes.

I taught a class the next town down

A special business taster day

All safe in the help of a specialist TA

Who sent seven out for backchat,( I feel here that I should mention

That to bollock them in my lunchtime gives me unpaid detention!)

Yes, it is the children’s fault,

Yes, it is TV.

Yes, it is computer games and yes, it’s partly me.

For I’d sack it in tomorrow

Teach somewhere that is worth my while

With a badge not saying visitor where my colleagues wear a smile

I’d not teach in schools with scruffy kids and hormonal TAs

But the Tories are in, the sad fact is, and sadly morals do not pay.

Thanks for reading, S. 

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Mars: Bringer of Tor

Aphrodite sat on the concrete steps, dangling her neatly arched feet into the milky spume from whence she came. Beneath the ubiquitous brine, Uranus lingered still - salty with a trace of zinc. This is where she came to revitalise. Infidelity had its charms but one too many Mona Lisa smiles had left the first traces of corvid footprints around her eyes. The goddess's fountain of youth wasn't what it used to be. If you listened carefully to the waves they'd tell you they felt a bit sick. The tide would pull down its lower eyelid and point to the dirty flesh, asking if it looked pale. Aprhodite weighed her right tit critically in her hand. Strictly speaking, it shouldn't rest on her palm like that. It certainly shouldn't spill over the edge. It might be time to head back to Paphos soon. The all-pervasive grey which dominated this landscape seemed to be sapping her colour, draining it from her body and feeding it into the brash glass structures which shut out the stars.

Hot, wet breath on the back of her neck alerted Aphrodite to the arrival of Setanta, the loping Irish wolfhound. The beast lapped at her shoulder briefly before sitting beside her. Ares whistled provocatively from the top of the steps but both goddess and dog ignored him, forcing the god of war to make his way down the steps. He continued to whistle to himself as he stood behind Aprhodite who smiled as Ares nestled his legs against her back so that she could feel his excitement against the back of her head. Aprhodite lifted her arms up to each side of her head and Ares pulled her up to her feet, spinning her round to face him and pulling her close so that he could taste the primal essence of his ancestor on her lips.

Minutes later the couple were between the sheets in the grotesque architectural anomaly known to locals as 'The Palace'. Here Hephaestus dwelt with Aprhodite in a doubtful arrangement which was part marriage, part transaction. Jove, Zeus, Jupiter. Whatever you called him, Aprhodite had daddy issues. The issue being that she'd rather he didn't see her as a convenient way of saying thank you:

Daughter or thank you card? Daughter or thank you card? Oh, go on - have my daughter. You earned her.

No.

Aphrodite, being a sensible goddess, reacted to this indignity in the most appropriate manner. She screwed Ares, god of war, at every available opportunity. She did so in Hephaestus' bed, beneath his own roof, just in case there was any confusion about her allegiance. She bore Ares 5 children. Or was it 6? After the third birth she'd stopped keeping track. Offspring also seemed to attract the footsteps of the corvidae.

Aprhodite giggled breathlessly beneath the excitable Ares as they attempted to recreate the dance of a pair of sparring swans. Even infidelity requires an injection of spice occasionally. Just as Ares was attempting his masterpiece move, which involved arching backwards to touch his toes so that he resembled a horny doughnut, a thin layer of incredibly fine fabric fell upon the couple, trapping them in their exotic embrace. Hephaestus pulled the magical net in tight around the couple and declared that he was taking them to the Winter Gardens where their shame would be revealed before the clan.


Ares tried to reason with the cuckolded Hephaestus but the miffed god was having none of it. Aphrodite was his play thing. Zeus said so. She was supposed to play with him whenever he liked and he didn't want to share. The crafty artisan dragged the sweaty pair through the town centre and into the Winter Gardens. He ignored the cheery greeting from Hermes on the door and stomped into the Olympia Exhibition Hall where Zeus was presiding over a busy antique market. Hephaestus dragged his cargo passed a table where Athena was haggling with a strident elderly lady over a bronze buckle. He ignored the indecent comment from Apollo who leaned back in a plastic chair, surrounded by over-priced lyres and tuneless guitars. Zeus was enjoying a brew and a Garibaldi at the back of the hall. A bubbly nereid was offering to top him up when Hephaestus dumped the net containing Aprhodite and Ares on the floor in front of him and demanded that the pair be punished for their disgraceful behaviour.

A giddy bout of laughter moved around the hall as gods and goddesses caught on to the situation. Thighs were slapped and eyes were dabbed and none laughed harder than Zeus himself. Hermes wandered in for a chuckle and Apollo shouted over, "Hermes! How much would you pay me to tie you up in a net with Aprhodite for half an hour?" Another ripple of laughter spread around the hall and even the stingy old woman chuckled. Meanwhile, Ares and Aphrodite were growing a little bored of their role in this comedy and Ares looked to his mate, Poseidon for assistance. The old earth shaker had a quiet word in Hephaestus' shell-like. Told him to set the pair free before anyone got upset. Promised to 'make it right'. He pulled rank. Hephaestus released the nude deities with no small amount of grumbling.

The lusty lovers retreated to their respective temples for a little pampering and adulation. Aprhodite simmered in a hot bubble bath. Grace A was putting the kettle on while Grace B picked out something snazzy for the evening. Grace C hummed to herself while applying a conditioning treatment to the ends of Aphrodite's hair. The goddess' perfect toes turned the hot tap back on as she relaxed. With a single malt whisky in one hand and a holiday brochure in the other, Aprhodite laughed.



Image from: http://www.amounderness.co.uk/blackpool_winter_gardens_entrance_church_street.html

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