Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
Take kindly the council of years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
You are child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life
keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams
it is still a beautiful world.
text from Desiderata
by Max Ehrmann, 1927
Sound needs a medium to travel, something to bounce off, and since space is known as an empty vacuum, we shouldn’t be able to hear anything, right? Sound does exist in the form of electromagnetic vibrations that pulsate in similar wavelengths, according to NASA.
In the quest to determine whether space is an empty, soundless vacuum, NASA designed special instruments that could record these electromagnetic vibrations, and transferred them into sounds our ears could hear. The result is astonishing.
“Through specially designed instruments, the NASA Voyager, INJUN 1, ISEE 1, and HAWKEYE space probes used plasma wave antenna to record the vibrations all within the range of human hearing (20-20,000 Hz).
“The recorded sounds are the complex interactions of charged electromagnetic particles from the Solar Wind, ionisphere, and planetary magnetosphere.
“The recordings include, Saturn’s rings, Miranda, Neptune, Voice of Earth, Saturn, Jupiter, IO, Rings of Uranus, Song of Earth, and Uranus.”
“Strictly speaking, the plasma wave instrument does not detect sound. Instead, it senses waves of electrons in the ionized gas or ‘plasma’ that Voyager travels through. These waves, however, do take place at frequencies that humans can detect.”
“We can play the data through a loudspeaker and listen. The pitch and frequency tell us about the density of gas surrounding the spacecraft.”
For comparison, I placed my hat on the ground for these…
They can look a bit eerie, like skulls strewn across the forest floor,
lying among the dead leaves..
a perfect effect for this spookiest time of year…
Regrettably, they were two far gone to eat..
waking from a winter’s dream
the tender Earth yearning
for the rousing touch
of the burgeoning Sun
within the circle
of my arms
turning all the contours
of her resplendent body
though the steady grasp
of my caressing hands
as the flush of spring
life beneath the surface
urgent to blossom
the breathless gasp
of flowers unfolding
to move through her
as the electric Sun
on a long summer’s day
across the arching sky
drawing the folds
of every petal
at they trace the Sun’s
upon her undulating body
and then ardent autumn
at the climax of the rite
exclamations of color
pulsating through her landscape
then, once more, release
of sanguine cascade
and so the dance
hand in hand, arms encircling
the sweet surrender
* * * * *
a grace bestowed
to waltz with you
and twirl the litheness
of your being
through the gentle fall
and cascading whirl
of sanguine autumn leaves
until tree leafs become snowflakes
and the kindled warmth
of our clasped souls
melts a sphere
for the season’s dance
to now and ever last
SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;
For Summer has o’erbrimm’d their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river-sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.