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Where did all the love I gave go
When you’re young it’s effortless
So easy to give away
And by the time it’s too late
You’re searching your whole body to muster up anything to hand over
Anything to be enough
To fill you up
If all the love my heart gave is still out there
With no place to go
Pray it knows
It’s welcome back
 Sep 24
Poetry is the weeping eye
it is the weeping shoulder
the weeping eye of the shoulder
it is the weeping hand
the weeping eye of the hand
it is the weeping soul
the weeping eye of the heel.
Oh, you friends,
poetry is not a tear
it is the weeping itself
the weeping of an uninvented eye
the tear of the eye
of the one who must be beautiful
of the one who must be happy.

by Nichita Stanescu, translated by Thomas Carlson and Vasile Poenaru
 Sep 24
Distance is the cog wheel
on the haunted axle of my hearing,
grinding fine the deadened mind
of that unborn god
waiting to be caught
by the earth's blue speed,
and carrying in a handled urn
the plucked heart - ours,
it's beating, it's heard, it's beating, it's heard,
a sphere in wild growth -
the roads are wet with tears,
memory frail and elastic,
a sling for stones, a gondola
drowned in childlike Venice's,
a tooth yanked from the cells with a string -
down the empty socket of Vesuvius. And you exist.

by Nichita Stanescu, translated by Thomas Carlson and Vasile Poenaru
 Sep 2
MT Browder
this world
will try to dim your light
yours and mine
Shine Lizzy Shine
this world
will try to slow you down
you're far far from done
Run Lizzy Run
this world
may knock you down
aim higher than the sky
Fly Lizzy Fly
this world
is not as strong as you
angels watch from above
Love Lizzy Love
The thing no one tells you about grief is that time doesn’t always heal your wounds
I am no longer 17
And I no longer go weak at the knees for you
I don’t need your praise or touch
I still skip your favourite songs on my playlists
Like I’m committing sweet revenge for myself at 20
Hopeless and dedicated
Like if the 4 minutes and 30 seconds of Heartbeat play one less time in your lifetime
You’ll know
And you’ll feel me at 24
Hoping it hurt you bad
 Jul 3
do you dream of me
in the night
when the moon peeks its head out from its haze?

do you dream of me
the way i dream of silent chills
in cloudy summer days?

do you dream of me
in morning light
or evening blaze?

do you dream of me
the way i dream of your tender embrace?
or the way i dream of you
and your quiet mistakes
and all of the heart ache?

do you dream of me?
 May 22
A drop of water fell on my hand,
drawn from the Ganges and the Nile,

from hoarfrost ascended to heaven off a seal's whiskers,
from jugs broken in the cities of Ys and Tyre.

On my index finger
the Caspian Sea isn't landlocked,

and the Pacific is the Rudawa's meek tributary,
the same stream that floated in a little cloud over Paris

in the year seven hundred and sixty-four
on the seventh of May at three a. m.

There are not enough mouths to utter
all your fleeting names, O water.

I would have to name you in every tongue,
pronouncing all the vowels at once

while also keeping silent — for the sake of the lake
that still goes unnamed

and doesn't exist on this earth, just as the star
reflected in it is not in the sky.

Someone was drowning, someone dying was
calling out for you. Long ago, yesterday.

You have saved houses from fire, you have carried off
houses and trees, forests and towns alike.

You've been in christening fonts and courtesans' baths.
In coffins and kisses.

Gnawing at stone, feeding rainbows.
In the sweat and the dew of pyramids and lilacs.

How light the raindrop's contents are.
How gently the world touches me.

Whenever wherever whatever has happened
is written on waters of Babel

By Wisława Szymborska
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