“The Golden Ring” by Suchang Dong (2021), winner of Astronomy Photographer of the Year, 2021

Every golden ring 

might be a winner, so why not
stick your arm through the hole, let it drop
to your wrist, a bright bangle

or press its circle into your palm
burning away lifelines, branding yourself
a slave to time, to the universe

after the big bang that started
this hot glow but didn’t set its eclipse —
the moment the disc becomes a ring

the ring a track for golden-pawed
retrievers to race around, tails flaming;
a giant O left hanging by a lover

besotted with an Omar or Octavia;
the mark from a tumbler left upside down
on the dark table of the sky;

a god of light reduced to an edge,
a rim, a ring to toss in a moment so fleeting
we hold our breath, lips fixed

in a scribbled line, while a lens
magnifies the Moon-sized blackout disc
before it lifts and our eyes

burn again, blinded if we look
too long. No more winners — only,
goodness gracious, a great ball of fire.

NJ Hynes in “Tracking Light, Stacking Time”, Live Canon, 2023

ECLIPSED
	— response to Sonnet VII, Wm Shakespeare


The dogs howl and household gods shiver	
as the sun dims and living colour dies,			
a world reduced to black and white – but tides		
continue to rise. The moon draws to her			
growing seas and awkward monthly pains;			
her milky light is gone, yet she covers
the golden sun, casts a shadow over
its flame.  Her gravity and mass remain
even when her features disappear;						
a stoic lid to the star's burning light.
Unlike the sun, she will always stay near,		
whether plump or perilously slight.
So be glad, oh woman, expectant one,			
for a moon-faced daughter – not a son.

NJ Hynes in 154: 21st-century poets respond to Shakespeare’s sonnets, Live Canon, 2016

Sonnet VII, by William Shakespeare

Lo, in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climbed the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage.
But when from highmost pitch with weary car
Like feeble age he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, ’fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract and look another way.
 So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon,
 Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.