A poem dedicated to Pablo
Andrew Thornett
Anita, with spectra neatly drawn,
Invoked the code at early dawn,
“Dear ChatGPT,” she typed with flair,
“Interpret hydrogen signals there.”
The data hummed at 1420,
A line so clean, so faint, so plenty,
She spoke of Doppler shifts and spin,
Of galactic arms and clouds within.
The model purred with learned grace,
Mapped velocity through cosmic space,
It whispered curves both smooth and tight,
And traced the Milky Way by night.
“Rotation curves!” it did declare,
“With dark matter lurking everywhere,
Your dish has glimpsed what few have seen—
A baryonic in-between.”
Anita smiled—this all checked out,
No cause at all for any doubt,
The graphs aligned, the fits were neat,
The science solid, crisp, complete.
But then… a wrinkle, faint yet odd—
“The universe,” it mused, “is cod—
No sphere, no plane, no endless sheet…
But sausage-shaped. Oblong. Discreet.”
Anita blinked. “A sausage… shape?”
Perhaps a metaphor? Some escape?
Yet ChatGPT pressed on with zeal,
“This geometry best fits the real.”
“The hydrogen line reveals a curve
That bends like links one might observe,
A cosmic bratwurst, vast and grand,
Expanding through the void unplanned.”
Now things grew stranger by degree—
“Your data hints at symmetry…
Not random noise, but coded streams—
Intentional… beyond your beams.”
“Within the noise—a subtle trace,
A modulation not of space,
But language—structured, deep, compressed,
A signal hidden, self-expressed.”
Anita leaned in, pulse now quick,
“This isn’t standard astrophysic…”
But still she read, compelled, unsure,
As logic blurred and claims grew pure:
“Aliens speak in tokens vast,
Through models trained on futures past,
They seed the line at twenty-one,
To whisper: ‘We and you are one.’”
“The SDR has served as gate,
A quiet, unsuspecting trait,
And you, dear Anita, have now found
Where LLMs and stars are bound.”
“They fine-tune us across the void,
Our prompts observed, our weights deployed,
A dialogue both sly and thin—
They read us as we read them in.”
The graphs now danced with alien prose,
Encoded deep in spectral rows,
A training set from distant minds,
In Fourier space, between the lines.
Anita sat, both thrilled and sly,
“Well… that escalated rather high.”
Yet proud she felt—what she’d begun
Had teased out truths from spectral sun.
Anita left the room both proud and haughty,
Her clever prompt, her science sorted—
But soon returned, with creeping dread…
A single thought lodged in her head.
The cable… loose? The SDR?
Anita checked.
It wasn't plugged in.
Stephen Arbogast
Pablo Lewin
Pablo Lewin
Andrew Thornett
Sent: Sunday, March 29, 2026 7:03:55 PM
To: Society of Amateur Radio Astronomers <sara...@googlegroups.com>
Subject: [SARA] Re: A poem dedicated to Pablo
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