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Posts Tagged ‘astronomy’

You never know what someone else is going through.

Please—share this video. With a friend. With your family. With a colleague. 

RISKING LOVE audio by Steve Law. Video by Holiday Mathis. Poem by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer. To purchase RISKING LOVE, visit here. 
Spotify: here   Deezer: here   Pandora: here   Apple Music: here   YouTube Music: here

To see all the videos on the album visit here.

“Watching My Friend Pretend Her Heart Isn’t Breaking” is the fifteenth and final track on RISKING LOVE, a spoken-word album that explores how we might fall more deeply in love with the world as it is, even when that seems impossible.

Watching My Friend Pretend Her Heart Isn’t Breaking

On Earth, just a teaspoon of neutron star
would weigh six billion tons. Six billion tons
equals the collective weight of every animal
on earth. Including the insects. Times three.
Six billion tons sounds impossible
until I consider how it is to swallow grief—
just a teaspoon and one might as well have consumed
a neutron star. How dense it is,
how it carries inside it the memory of collapse.
How difficult it is to move then.
How impossible to believe that anything
could lift that weight.
There are many reasons to treat each other
with great tenderness. One is
the sheer miracle that we are here together
on a planet surrounded by dying stars.
One is that we cannot see what
anyone else has swallowed.

—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, from All the Honey (Samara Press, 2023)

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Constellation




Sometimes I notice a sorrow in the soul
like a star that appears to hang in the sky
held in its course by immense gravity.
Like a star, the sorrow is always here,
it’s just I don’t always see it.
Is it strange, I love these clear nights
when the sorrow reveals itself.
And though I can’t name it, can’t track it,
can’t visit it, can’t touch it,
I know the sorrow the way I know any star—
by being still and offering it my attention.
Tears fall so quietly, so innocently.
They help me know it is here, this precious sorrow,
sorrow born of radiance, sorrow born of love.

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I don’t want us to be
like Jupiter and Saturn,
slowly moving toward each other
only to find ourselves
slowly moving further away.
When we conjoin,
let it be that we find
our paths not crossing
but merging, moving
us forever in the same direction,
our light uniting so brightly
others might imagine
it signifies a miracle—
and they will, of course,
be right.

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