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reflections on belonging

a palmers chronicle right bw

Graphic Novels

Photo by Dainius Dirgėla
Descartes and I did not exactly chime,
but loved ones denied me many times
like some proof insufficient for belief.

Personal archive photo
my muscles will ache and I'll remember what it means to dream
those gentle slow days
smeared in unctuous dreams

Photo by Sherwin Bitsui
Once I had a compass, a tailwind, a cross breeze
but now my home is empty-handed except for me.

Only when the sun goes down and the audience
returns to its own element, sated and benign in its
dream of me, do I have a chance for mine.

Photo by Edita Grėbliūnaitė
the people all asleep
and streets and squares have grown quiet
in the mobile cranes of words
in the ship-holds of poems
in a baltic mouth breathing
the northern lights’ cold

probably I’m unindictable,
looking at you, rising Sun,
rising over Ukmergė

Photo by Milda Kiaušaitė
well, OK then, now tell me honestly:
in that poem,
am I beautiful?

Photo by Joakim Eskildsen
Who will mourn this tree with me?
Who will eulogize this tree?
Who will embrace its thick knotted trunk,
As it ultimately crashes down onto the hard asphalt?

Photo by Orinta Gerikaitė
For all things have turned into words, tasteless, scentless,
Formless, sensationless, meaningless, even wingless.
Staying silent is all that is left then,
Or writing verses about writing poetry. As
A real poet ought to.

Photo by Dainius Dirgėla
Give me back my hands. Give me back the fields and how they tremble.
Skylark, skylark, the wind is with you. Sleep. And sails. And light.



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