Sonnets for the Astronomical Clock

• Chapter 1 The Blueprint of the Heavens
• Chapter 2 Iron, Brass, and Vltava Mist
• Chapter 3 The First Strike of the Bell
• Chapter 4 Gears in the Old Town Square
• Chapter 5 The Whispering Pendulum
• Chapter 6 Astrolabe of the Heart
• Chapter 7 Fading Chimes at Dawn
• Chapter 8 The Dwindling Roar of the Crowd
• Chapter 9 Silence in the Workshop
• Chapter 10 Calculations in Mute Air
• Chapter 11 The Apostles of Carved Wood
• Chapter 12 Vibration Through the Bone
• Chapter 13 The Skeleton's Hourglass
• Chapter 14 Ghostly Echoes in the Belfry
• Chapter 15 The Language of Moving Teeth
• Chapter 16 Night Beneath the Zodiac
• Chapter 17 In the Deafening Stillness
• Chapter 18 A Touch Upon the Escapement
• Chapter 19 Solitary Harmonies
• Chapter 20 The Rooster's Silent Crow
• Chapter 21 Measuring the Unseen Orbit
• Chapter 22 The Council’s Final Summons
• Chapter 23 The Secret Spring
• Chapter 24 A City Awaiting the Hour
• Chapter 25 The Great Awakening of the Dial
• Chapter 26 Music Within the Unheard Ring

I

Upon the drafting board of aged oak, The vellum spreads beneath my steady hand. Outside, the chimneys breathe their chimney-smoke Across the quiet roofs of Prague’s old land. I trace the circle with a compass point, A universe born out of ink and lead; The brass hinges flex at every joint To draw the path where golden suns shall tread. The winter wind hums low against the glass, A song of frost that whispers from the street, While here I measure wheels of forged brass And make the earth and starry heavens meet. Before the hammer strikes or iron rings, The universe is drawn on quiet wings.

II

To cage the stars within a frame of oak Requires the mind to chart the hidden sphere, To tame the cosmic wheels that ancient folk Observed with wonder and a holy fear. I lay the ruler flat against the sheet, Dividing hours into equal parts, Where solar arc and lunar cycle meet To mirror movement in our human hearts. The city slumbers in the mist below, The river Vltava reflects the night, While by the lamp’s pale, flickering yellow glow I give the cosmos geometric light. No gear is cast, no axle yet is bound, Yet in these lines the sky begins to turn around.

III

Here lies the ecliptic ring, a slanted band Whereon the twelve zodiacal signs are placed; I curve the arc with carefully guided hand, That every constellation may be traced. The Ram, the Bull, the Twins in silver ink, Shall show the peasant how the seasons slide; Upon this parchment page I stop to think How human lives by celestial motion glide. The market square outside is silent now, The watchman calls the second hour of night; I wipe the beaded sweat from off my brow And turn the compass to the morning light. Each degree measured with exact design Will hold the heavens in a copper line.

IV

The astrolabe requires a double grid: The local sky, the fixed stars overhead. To calculate what lies in shadow hid, I consult the charts where ancient masters read. Old Ptolemy’s great maps upon the wall, And Tycho’s numbers calculated fine, Prompt me to build a clock to rule them all, Where sky and earth in harmony combine. I balance sun-hand against lunar phase, And set the pointer for the dragon’s tail, To track eclipses through the coming days When shadow turns the glowing sun-disk pale. The blueprint blooms in intricate detail, A paper vault no storm can e'er assail.

V

My ears attend the quiet scraping sound Of iron nib across the sheepskin skin; The ticking of my pocket watch, wound tight, Beats like a small, imprisoned heart within. It ticks so sharp, so delicate and clear, A tiny pulse that marks the passing grace; I hear the candle sputter very near, And hear the shadows dancing on my face. How sweet the music of these subtle tones! The rasp of quill, the breathing of the dark, The creak of wooden beams and paving stones, The distant barking dog, the sudden spark. I treasure every sound the night can yield, Ere iron works begin upon the field.

VI

The tooth counts must be calculated right: Three hundred sixty-five for solar gear, While lunar movements, shifting day and night, Demand a ratio subtle and severe. A fraction missed, a millimeter wrong, Would turn the heavenly ballet to ash; The moon would sing an out-of-tempo song, And sun with shadow prematurely clash. With slate and chalk I multiply the teeth, Deriving numbers for the main wheel’s rim, While cold air creeps from cobbled streets beneath And fills the workshop corners dark and dim. Math is the bone, geometry the flesh, By which the sky and iron gears enmesh.

VII

I draft the wooden frame of heavy pine That shall support three hundred pounds of weight, A tower built of timber, straight and fine, To hold the heavy pendulums of fate. It must withstand the dampness of the spring, The summer heat that makes the iron swell, The bitter frosts that winter mornings bring, When ice hangs heavy on the church tower bell. Each mortise joint is drawn with double lines, Each tenon measured to the fractional inch; Against the wall, the shadow’s dark designs Follow my movements, ne'er inclined to flinch. The frame shall stand when I am dust and clay, To mark the passing of the city’s day.

VIII

The sunset hand requires a dark blue ring, Embossed with golden numbers one to twenty-four, To count Old Bohemian time, and bring The ancient tradition to the public door. For here in Prague, the day begins at night, When sun sinks down behind the castle hill; The people look to see the fading light And know their daily labor has gone still. I curve the numerals in Gothic script, With flourishes of azure and of gold, Remembering how the winter frost has nipped The fingers of the artists who grew old. To give the public eye a noble sight, I paint the day’s decay, the birth of night.

IX

My young apprentice, Jan, sleeps in the loft, His heavy breathing rhythmic in the rafters high; Outside, the falling snow falls cold and soft, Blanketing rooftops underneath the sky. I envy him his uncomplicated sleep, Unhaunted by the gear-trains in my head; While I my nocturnal vigils keep, By geometric calculations led. Yet this is love: to build what will endure, To write the rhythm of the stars in brass, To make the abstract beauty clear and pure Before our brief, mortal moments pass. I dip the quill into the iron gall, And draw the moon-globe on the northern wall.

X

The stereographic projection of the sphere Transforms three dimensions into flat design; The tropics and equator appear As concentric circles of a dark line. The horizon arc splits daytime from the night, Crepuscular shadows drawn in subtle gray, So when the golden sun-disk comes in sight, The town beholds the dawning of the day. It is a miracle of human thought To press the vault of heaven on a plate, To capture what the Great Creator wrought And set it turning at a steady rate. My hand is steady though the hour is late, As I map out the turns of time and fate.

XI

I pause to listen to the chimney sweep Calling his trade along the morning lane; The city wakes from its frosty sleep, And horses clatter through the mist and rain. The rattle of a wagon on the stone, The clink of milk cans coming from the farm, The church bells ringing in a treble tone, Warning the sleepy shopfolk of alarm. I hear it all: the laughter and the cries, The butcher shouting at his stubborn mule, The morning birds that chatter in the skies, The children dragging satchels off to school. These sounds surround the desk whereon I bend, A tapestry of sound without an end.

XII

The escapement wheel must have a crown-like shape, To catch the pallets as they swing and sway, Allowing power slowly to escape And measure out the fraction of a day. I draw each tooth with triangular pride, Slanking backward at an angle sharp; It is the heart that pumps the clock inside, As rhythmic as the plucking of a harp. If it be forged too soft, the metal wears; If forged too hard, the brittle teeth will break; It must be tempered through a thousand cares, For my own honor and the city’s sake. I shade the metal surfaces in red, To show the blacksmith where the iron's led.

XIII

A second dial shall show the zodiac's path, Offset within the larger solar ring, Requiring complex double-gear math To turn it with the coming of the spring. It moves more slow, a degree every day, Lags behind the sun's triumphant ride, Showing how stars insensibly delay While human generations live and die. I mark the Crab, the Lion, and the Scales, The Water-Bearer pouring out his stream; Through winter blizzards and through summer gales, This wheel shall realize my lifelong dream. The blueprint lengthens as the pages grow, Filled with the details only masters know.

XIV

The councilmen of Old Town Guild came by Yesterday noon to inspect the work I’ve done; They looked upon the plans with doubtful eye, And asked how brass could track the moon and sun. "Is it not too complex?" the Mayor said, Stroking his beard of silver-beaded white; "Can simple folk, by daily labor led, Understand this wheel of day and night?" I told them that the clock speaks to the heart, Not just the scholar with his leather book; For even peasants understand the art When on the turning sun and moon they look. They departed then, satisfied and grave, Leaving the budget that my labors crave.

XV

The sun's hand carries a small golden orb, To show its place against the blue sky background; Its steady movement shall the eye absorb As it completes its daily circular round. Below the horizon, in the black of night, It travels through the underworld below, Until it rises in the eastern light To set the morning towers all aglow. I draw the rayed crown upon the disk, Gilding the edges with a tiny brush; In this creation I have set my risk, Working late hours in the workshop's hush. The sun shall rise because my wheels command, Driven by weights beneath a wooden stand.

XVI

The moon-sphere is a marvel of its own, One half painted silver, one half black, It turns upon an axis of polished bone To show the phases on its celestial track. As it revolves, it shows the waxing light, Then slowly darkens to the crescent thread, Mirroring the lady of the night Who watches over every sleeper's bed. To make it spin requires an internal gear, A pin mechanism hidden from the eye; I sketch the tiny levers drawing near, Connected to the primary drive on high. No detail is too small, no tooth too slight, To bring the heavens down to human sight.

XVII

I stand up from the desk and stretch my spine, The oil lamp flickering low for lack of fuel; The blueprint is complete in every line, A masterpiece of geometric rule. Here lies the astronomical clock of Prague, On paper spread, awaiting forge and lathe; Through winter snow and autumn river fog, These plans shall keep my ambition safe and swathe. Tomorrow I shall fire up the forge, And hammer iron till the sparks fly high; From raw red ore and metal I shall gorge A machine to match the order of the sky. I fold the vellum with a quiet prayer, And breathe the cool and morning-scented air.

I

The cold river mist creeps up the cobbled street, And drafts blow chilly through the workshop door; With heavy clogs upon my freezing feet, I sweep the iron shavings from the floor. The charcoal hearth is ready for the blast, The giant bellows hanging from the beam Await the muscles of the boy to cast The first gray shadows of a smoky dream. My hammer rests upon the anvil’s head, A block of steel that shines with polished wear, While in the corner, stacks of dull gray lead And sheets of yellow brass lie cold and bare. The quiet draftsman must become the smith, To forge the metal from a paper myth.

II

Young Jan is pumping at the leather lungs, His young face reddened by the sudden glow; The fire speaks in orange-flickering tongues, While in the grate the embers start to blow. The smell of sulphur and of burning coal Replaces winter air and cedar shavings; This fiery furnace is the clockwork's soul, To tame the metal’s wild and stubborn cravings. I cast a bar of iron in the heat, And watch the dark gray skin turn dusty red; The rhythm of my heart begins to beat In measure with the bellows’ heavy tread. Now soft as wax, the stubborn bar is bound To take the shape of what must turn around.

III

I lift the iron with my tongs of steel And lay it burning on the anvil’s face; The hammer swings to make the metal feel The heavy hand that shapes it to its place. A shower of gold and crimson sparks flies high, Singing the woolen apron at my chest; Like tiny shooting stars across the sky, They light the dark room with a moment’s zest. The ringing blow is musical and clear, A loud, metallic clang that fills the ears, It shakes the rafters and the tools drawn near, And drives away the winter morning fears. With every strike, the form begins to yield, The crude bar shaped into a shining shield.

IV

The ring that holds the great celestial dial Must be forged circular, without a seam; It takes three hours of relentless trial To bend the iron to the paper scheme. I curve it round the anvil’s conical horn, Adjusting every arc with heavy blows, Until a perfect hoop of iron is born, As round as any wild Bohemian rose. I hear the steam rise with a sudden hiss As in the water tub the ring is drowned; The hot steam gives the frosty air a kiss, And white clouds swirl and gather all around. It emerges blackened, cold, and strong, Prepared to bear the zodiac along.

V

Now comes the work upon the sheets of brass, A softer metal, yellow as the sun, Through which the cold and quiet light shall pass Before the master's turning work is done. I shear the plates with massive iron shears, That screech and groan against the stubborn sheet; The sound is like a ghost that interferes With the slow rhythm of the quiet street. My ears ring with the high-pitched metal scream, A sharp sensation in my inner ear; I shake my head to dispel the painful dream, And focus on the work that lies so near. The brass is bright, reflecting lantern flame, Awaiting teeth to win its golden fame.

VI

With dividers I mark the outer rim, Punching a tiny dot for every tooth; The morning light is watery and dim, But my old eyes must verify the truth. Three hundred teeth upon the solar wheel, Each one a tiny mountain to be made; I file them one by one with tools of steel, Beneath the guttering oil lamp’s yellow shade. The rasping sound is like a cricket's song, A dry, continuous chatter in the room; It keeps me company the whole day long, To drive away the winter afternoon’s gloom. The pile of yellow brass dust starts to grow, Like golden sand upon the floor below.

VII

I hear the distant church bells start to chime, The noon hour calling from the Týn Church tower; They tell the city of the passing time, And warn the lazy of the fleeting hour. I pause and wipe the brass dust from my chin, And listen to the deep, resonant tone; It vibrates through my breastplate and my skin, A voice of iron, powerful and lone. Soon my own clock shall join this choral song, But with a voice more complex and refined, To lead the minds of Prague’s impatient throng To wonders that the heavens have designed. I take a draught of bitter, pale-foamed beer, To clear my throat and keep my vision clear.

VIII

My young apprentice, Jan, is filing too, But his young hand is clumsy with the rasp; He takes off too much metal, and anew He drops the delicate compass from his grasp. I do not scold, for patience is the key To making things that outlast mortal breath; I show him how to hold the tool, and see How metal must be worked until our death. "The file must bite on forward strokes alone," I tell him, sliding my own hand on his; "And let the iron glide upon the stone, To find out where the true proportion is." He nods his head, his eyes are bright and wide, And takes his place once more at my own side.

IX

The river Vltava is choked with ice, Great white floes grinding in the muddy stream; The cold wind bites the fingers like a vice, And turns the breath to clouds of frosty steam. I walk down to the bridge to clear my head, And watch the gray mist rising from the wave; The city seems a kingdom of the dead, Save for the chimney smoke so bright and brave. The stone apostles on the Karlsbrücke stand, Encased in hoods of white and silent snow, Looking across this cold, Bohemian land, Unmoving while the icy currents flow. I think of how my clockwork saints must rise, To move beneath the gray, uncaring skies.

X

Back in the shop, the brazier’s coals are dead, The air has grown as chilly as the tomb; I throw on pine knots, burning bright and red, To cast out shadows from the drafty room. The brass plates must be hammered flat and true, For if they warp, the gears will surely bind; I use a mallet made of boxwood blue, To leave no ugly hammer marks behind. I tap the metal with a gentle force, Listening to the pitch of every sound; A flat, dull thud reveals a crooked course, While high, clear rings show flatness has been found. My ears are guides as much as my own eyes, To find out where the hidden error lies.

XI

The mist outside turns into freezing rain, That beats against the leaded window glass; It streaks the dust upon the dirty pane, And makes the winter day too slowly pass. I hear the coachmen shouting in the square, The whip-cracks echoing like pistol shots, While horses slip upon the stones so bare, And soldiers drink in warm, tavern spots. I stay within my world of brass and wood, Where time is measured by a steady stride; I would not change my labor if I could, For all the riches of the world outside. Here in the dust, the stars are made to spin, By human hands, and quiet hearts within.

XII

The central axle is a bar of steel, Turned on the lathe with slow, deliberate care; It must support the weight of every wheel, And turn as smooth as birds upon the air. The iron shaving curls off in a thread, Polished and bright beneath the chisel's bite; The smell of tallow grease and oil is spread, To keep the cutting edge from burning bright. I turn the wooden wheel with my own foot, Keeping a steady, rhythmic, walking pace, While iron dust and greasy, blackish soot Cover my hands and smear my wrinkled face. The axle must be straight, without a bend, To keep the clockwork turning to the end.

XIII

A delegation from the blacksmiths' guild Arrived this afternoon to view the forge; They wanted to see how the frame is willed, And if the city's funds I would engorge. They felt the iron of the outer ring, And tapped the central axle with a nail; They muttered of the tension in the spring, And wondered if the heavy frame would fail. "It is too light to hold the heavy weight," The oldest smith declared, with shaking head; "The first frost of the winter, sure as fate, Will snap your iron arbor into lead." I smiled and showed them how the braces run, To distribute the weight when all is done.

XIV

They left at last, with grumbling and with sighs, Still doubtful of a clockmaker’s design; They only see the metal with their eyes, And not the math that makes the structure fine. I do not care for what the doubters say, For I have calculated every strain; The work goes on through night and through the day, Despite the cold, the wind, the freezing rain. The Vltava mist may damp the iron frame, And rust may try to eat the gears away, But I shall coat them with a greasy flame Of lard and wax, to keep them from decay. The clock shall stand when all the guilds are gone, To mark the rising of the distant dawn.

XV

The day is done, the oil lamps are lit, And shadows stretch like giants on the wall; Beside the hearth, the two of us now sit, While outside, snow begins again to fall. My ears are weary from the hammer's clang, A low, dull hum that will not go away; It is the song the heavy anvil sang, That stays within my head throughout the day. I hear the wind howl in the chimney flue, A wild, free sound that makes the workshop shake; I wonder if the stars are shining blue Above the clouds, for their creator's sake. We eat our rye bread and our salted cheese, And watch the embers dying by degrees.