Tuesday Poem: And yet it moves, by Helen Heath

And yet it moves                                  Galileo Galilei (1564-1642)

you say of the earth
      - not the sun around us.

You cannot close your eyes
to the view at the end

of the eyeglass. Faith
is not a veil. Eyes drawn

to the stars, the suns, again
and again for years until

they burn through your lenses
twin black holes, one for each eye.

The dark slowly spreads.
The inquisition judges heresy,

commands a recant, wants blind
allegiance from a man in the dark

so you recant, muttering
and yet it moves.

Credit note: "And yet it moves" was published in Helen Heath's collection Graft (VUP, 2012) and is reproduced here by permission of the author.

Tim says: I've just finished reading Graft, and while I enjoyed the whole collection, the highlight for me was a number of wonderful poems about science, scientists and the history of science - other include the prizewinning Making tea in the universe and Night's Magic. This poem about Galileo Galilei elegantly captures the great dilemma of his life.

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