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reflections on belonging

a palmers chronicle right bw

Graphic Novels

Photo from personal archive
When I was small, my mother explained the
colors of the flag to me: yellow is the wheat field in
the month that I was born; green is the forest tree in
the summer; red is the blood released so she could be
here to tell me.

Photo from authors personal archive
but there is no war
says the boy
running down the street
the war ended
when the planes came
and we didn't make it
to the shelter

Maironis by the rectory,1930. From Maironis Lithuanian Literature Museum collection.
With such beauty the heart is freed
For the traveller who yearns to roam.
If only the eye could still see to see
The shores of Dubysa, my home.

Photo by Vida Ponelienė
a time when people were
not afraid of each other?

must be a bad joke

ask any rowan
by the road

Photo by Anette Mück
A lonely lover sings
Or maybe
We are the song
The lyrics don't make sense
We keep forgetting the words
Let's stay for another one
Just one more

Photo by Kamilė Blauzdytė
i have a dark pocket
i try to avoid that place in my mind
where the Earth is a little blue marble
the size of a pea and we are
never there

Photo from personal archives
and all of this must be preserved against time
though once a doctor made it very plain:

if there are some patients who feel cool
because they wrote a poem or two
let them try and operate on someone's brain

Auris in red. Photo by Antanas Untidy.
step out of the dream box, o Hamlet, your hour draws near
step out of the dream box
step out of the dream box
you can wear a colorful dress and sail and sail down the river

Photo by Vygaudas Juozaitis
I am the water running down gutters,
the sound of conversations echoing off walls.
Isn't it beautiful? I ask,
The things that bind us.

Photo by Evelina Audinytė
can it be that you’re a miracle (I always hear this word),
not a real one, but as if, as if it were a question of belief

the belief or knowledge that you are an independent
heart’s pulse, viscous dust quickened by lightning

Photo by Lina Simutytė
we are comets with the tails chopped off
our burning heads crashing
to rest

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