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#dead stars
luthienne · 4 months
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Ada Limón, from The Carrying; “Dead Stars”
What would happen if we used our bodies to bargain / for the safety of others, for earth, / if we declared a clean night, if we stopped being terrified, / if we launched our demands into the sky, made ourselves so big / people could point to us with the arrows they make in their minds,
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asoftepiloguemylove · 7 months
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Laura Gilpin The Two-Headed Calf // Linda Pastan Why Are Your Poems so Dark? // Margaret Atwood Shapechangers In Winter // @/doeantlers (twitter) // Vladimir Nabokov Letters to Vera // Ada Limón Dead Stars // @xshayarsha
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louisegluck · 2 years
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Ada Limón, from “Dead Stars.” [ID in alt text]
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spaceadvances · 7 months
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Scientists have detected the highest energy gamma rays ever from a dead star called a pulsar. The energy of these gamma rays clocked in at 20 tera-electronvolts, or about ten trillion times the energy of visible light.
Read more: https://rb.gy/w4xml
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cosmicexplorersblog · 1 month
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Cassiopeia A
Cassiopeia A (Cas A) is a supernova remnant located about 11,000 light-years from Earth in the constellation Cassiopeia. It spans approximately 10 light-years.
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lonelydancerr · 4 months
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Stop trying to keep me alive, you're pointing at a star in the sky that already died
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outstanding-quotes · 4 months
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What are the dead, anyway, but waves and energy? Light shining from a dead star?
Donna Tartt, The Secret History
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aniron48 · 1 year
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It seems like everyone I know is absolutely going through it right now, myself included, so I'm sharing a poem that has gotten me through hard times before, in the hopes that it can lend its light to all of us. It's by Ada Limón, who is currently our U.S. poet laureate.
Dead Stars by Ada Limón
Out here, there’s a bowing even the trees are doing.                  Winter’s icy hand at the back of all of us. Black bark, slick yellow leaves, a kind of stillness that feels so mute it’s almost in another year.
I am a hearth of spiders these days: a nest of trying.
We point out the stars that make Orion as we take out        the trash, the rolling containers a song of suburban thunder.
It’s almost romantic as we adjust the waxy blue        recycling bin until you say, Man, we should really learn some new constellations.
And it’s true. We keep forgetting about Antlia, Centaurus,        Draco, Lacerta, Hydra, Lyra, Lynx.
But mostly we’re forgetting we’re dead stars too, my mouth is full        of dust and I wish to reclaim the rising—
to lean in the spotlight of streetlight with you, toward        what’s larger within us, toward how we were born.
Look, we are not unspectacular things.        We’ve come this far, survived this much. What
would happen if we decided to survive more? To love harder?
What if we stood up with our synapses and flesh and said, No.      No, to the rising tides.
Stood for the many mute mouths of the sea, of the land?
What would happen if we used our bodies to bargain
for the safety of others, for earth,                  if we declared a clean night, if we stopped being terrified,
if we launched our demands into the sky, made ourselves so big people could point to us with the arrows they make in their minds,
rolling their trash bins out, after all of this is over?
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foggyspecsonmynose · 1 month
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jack-spilledink · 18 days
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The fact that you could meet someone who is formed from the same dead-star particles as you blows my mind …
(Talk about soulmates)
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https://poets.org/poem/dead-stars
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theroseadage · 1 year
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when paz marquez-benitez says, “the woman that could cause violent commotion in his heart, yet had no place in the completed ordering of his life.” with chingbee cruz's, “that day, if you had not refused, i would have given you a present. i would have carved my love in stone.”
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deadeyes-o0 · 7 months
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poemsunday · 1 year
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Dead Stars, by Ada Limón
Out here, there’s a bowing even the trees are doing.
Winter’s icy hand at the back of all of us.
Black bark, slick yellow leaves, a kind of stillness that feels
so mute it’s almost in another year.
I am a hearth of spiders these days: a nest of trying.
We point out the stars that make Orion as we take out
the trash, the rolling containers a song of suburban thunder.
It’s almost romantic as we adjust the waxy blue
recycling bin until you say, Man, we should really learn
some new constellations.
And it’s true. We keep forgetting about Antlia, Centaurus,
Draco, Lacerta, Hydra, Lyra, Lynx.
But mostly we’re forgetting we’re dead stars too, my mouth is full
of dust and I wish to reclaim the rising—
to lean in the spotlight of streetlight with you, toward
what’s larger within us, toward how we were born.
Look, we are not unspectacular things.
We’ve come this far, survived this much. What
would happen if we decided to survive more? To love harder?
What if we stood up with our synapses and flesh and said, No.
No, to the rising tides.
Stood for the many mute mouths of the sea, of the land?
What would happen if we used our bodies to bargain
for the safety of others, for earth,
if we declared a clean night, if we stopped being terrified,
if we launched our demands into the sky, made ourselves so big
people could point to us with the arrows they make in their minds,
rolling their trash bins out, after all of this is over?
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cosmicexplorersblog · 27 days
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IC BEAUTY 🥹
IC 4406, sometimes known as the Retina Nebula, is a planetary nebula near the western border of the constellation Lupus, the Wolf. It has dust clouds and has the shape of a torus.
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skychimera · 1 year
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Dead Stars
Ada Limón
Out here, there’s a bowing even the trees are doing.                  Winter’s icy hand at the back of all of us. Black bark, slick yellow leaves, a kind of stillness that feels so mute it’s almost in another year.
I am a hearth of spiders these days: a nest of trying.
We point out the stars that make Orion as we take out        the trash, the rolling containers a song of suburban thunder.
It’s almost romantic as we adjust the waxy blue        recycling bin until you say, Man, we should really learn some new constellations.
And it’s true. We keep forgetting about Antlia, Centaurus,        Draco, Lacerta, Hydra, Lyra, Lynx.
But mostly we’re forgetting we’re dead stars too, my mouth is full        of dust and I wish to reclaim the rising—
to lean in the spotlight of streetlight with you, toward        what’s larger within us, toward how we were born.
Look, we are not unspectacular things.        We’ve come this far, survived this much. What
would happen if we decided to survive more? To love harder?
What if we stood up with our synapses and flesh and said, No.      No, to the rising tides.
Stood for the many mute mouths of the sea, of the land?
What would happen if we used our bodies to bargain
for the safety of others, for earth,                  if we declared a clean night, if we stopped being terrified,
if we launched our demands into the sky, made ourselves so big people could point to us with the arrows they make in their minds,
rolling their trash bins out, after all of this is over?
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