Le ciel est, par-dessus le toit, The sky is, up above the roof, Si
bleu, si calme So blue, so calm Un arbre, par-dessus Je toit, A
tree there, up above the roof, Berce sa palme. Waves leaves of
palm. La cloche, dans le ciel qu'on voit, A church bell, in the sky
I see, Doucement tinte. Softly tolls. Un oiseau, sur l'arbre qu'on
voit, A bird, upon the tree I see, Chante sa plainte. Sadly calls.
PAUL VERLAINE Like Verlaine, we are in prison. The prison is our
Earth, "which is so pretty"; our atmosphere and its clouds, its
"marvellous clouds." (You would think that Verlaine, Prevert and
Baudelaire had been comparing notes ) The sky is up above the
roof... A tree there, up above the roof... Stars in the sky, like
birds ... their rays, like bells (and here we are with Apollinaire
) What we see opens the way to what we guess at; what we observe
Ieads us towards the unobservable. A poem releases images, and the
invisible grows big with reality. Astronomcrs are a little like
poets (indirectly from the Greek 7tostco, make): they make the
universe by interpreting messages, extrapolating spectra, and
inventing 'models' of the cosmos or of stars - fictional
constructions whose observable part constitutes only a small
fraction of the whole, and which only the inductive logic of the
theoretician allows us to consider as representing unique physical
reality.
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