A Celestial Crown of Sonnets, Sam Illingworth and Stephen Paul Wren
Penteract Press, 2021
The list
of astronomers who feature in this corona of sonnets reads like a Who’s Who of
a study of the heavens: Thales of Miletus, Plato, Aristotle, Shi Shen, Claudius
Ptolemy, Aryabhata, Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khwarizmi, Ibn al-Shatir, Nicolaus
Copernicus, Tycho Brahe, Johannes Kepler, Galileo Galilei, Isaac Newton, and William
Herschel are all included. They share one quality in common—a deep curiosity
about the stars and planets, and how the sky worked. In the earliest days of
astronomy—as one can imagine when one reads about the work of the more
historical figures named in this list—studying the constellations would have
seemed an odd thing to do. At the time, they would have been going against
common (mis)understandings of science, in an age when the Catholic Church posed
a real threat to any scientist’s life. The obvious threat for those who lived
and researched in the time of the Inquisition might have dampened their quest
for answers but, in many cases, only served to make them more certain and
passionate in their studies.
From Plato, who “kept the sun and moon and stars all bound,” to Aristotle, who lit fires that “would never cease,” to Galileo, who “claimed the sky was not a holy site,/Observing truth yet tempered with delight,” Illingworth and Wren create stunning images of these men’s relationships with the science of astronomy. There are lovely images in this small book of poems, but it is more the stories that are told within each sonnet that garner my interest and curiosity as a reader and thinker. By the time you get to the final piece in the corona of sonnets, with “Mastersonnet,” you have had time to think about what a struggle it must have been for these early scientists in particular—to have gone against churches and governments when it might have meant certain torture or death. Still, they continued, pressed against that oppression, and asked new questions that begged to be answered—even if the asking or the answering could lead to persecution.
In the time of which these male astronomers lived, science and poetry would have been more seamlessly woven together. Galileo, for instance, was an astronomer and an astrologer, so those worlds overlapped then. In more recent times, the disciplines of science and poetry have found common ground again, and serious, peer reviewed literary journals—like The Goose and Artis Natura here in Canada, and like Consilience in England—have sprung up to share the beauty that resides at the crossroads of the two fields of study. What once might have seemed an odd coupling now seems less rare and even more valuable, especially in a time in human history when we are faced with a global pandemic and environmental destruction. Poets and scientists who know the value of both worlds can see the similarities and elevate them for readers in both disciplines, so that there is a blending of curiosity, experimentation, and gathering new knowledge. I’m curious—as always—about when and where the women astronomers edged into what has traditionally and historically been a male-dominated field, and their marked absence somehow makes them more present in some ways.
If you love looking up at the night sky, finding your favourite constellations, and sharing that with a friend, lover, or family member, then you’ll also love Illingworth and Wren’s A Celestial Crown of Sonnets. The last two lines of the final poem sum up the importance of the work those fourteen astronomers have done: “Observing truth yet tempered with delight,/You tamed the sky and welcomed in the light.” So much of what we love about light as poets, and as readers of poetry—from stars, to sun, to moon—is the notion that it dispels darkness in both literal and metaphorical ways. Science does this, too, in its explorations, as well as in its ongoing quest to attain answers to questions. This book of poems bridges disciplines, inviting readers in and asking them to take the time to look up and consider our place in the universe.
