Tag: history

Posted in growing up, love, poetry

Self

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Self In third grade they made us write acrostic poems set to our names, assigning adjectives like “artistic,” to our letters, falling on generic phrases: “L-loves animals.” We wrote “I am” poems in education’s attempt to encourage self-reflection, “I am a daughter, a friend, a sister.” I am me. I hated poetry, misled by an eight year old’s agony to sit at a table and reflect on breathing, trapped in the command to notice when I inhaled and exhaled. I hated that mirror, the image of thinking deeply, of trying to understand the origins of feeling. I was a child of possibility, of adventure, of laying patches of moss carpet in our backyard treehouse, unconfined by reality, unwilling to understand the structures of my own personality, imagining space and time all my own, free from this idea of pausing, of judging myself through writing. In high school I disappeared, swallowed by sweatshirts, sucked inward as if a black hole swirled in my brain, afraid to talk, afraid to look past the layers of dust settled between me and all the other desks in class, bottling in silence, getting by, imploding alone. I collected those years in journals, verses and verses of history, the days of invisibility caught in tangibility, the me never seen exploding in newfound creativity, through discovery, soul awakened in the days of university, speaking and hearing a voice with something to say, people listening, through feeling through feeling finally feeling, a new me, a poet.

In second grade I thought I was going to grow up to become a librarian. In fourth grade I saw a documentary about a cave diving marine biologist and decided I’d become a scientist, a dream that lasted until my senior year in high school when I realized I didn’t in fact like studying biology at all. Never through all those years did I think I’d grow up to be a poet. It’s a passion I fell into through taking a chance, one that took coaxing to start, but one I will never regret.

I’ve written a lot about heartbreak lately, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Poetry is the outlet that lets me heal, my real true love. No matter where my heart drifts or cracks, it will always have a home in words. Thank you for listening and letting me sing.

Love,

Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Solace

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Solace There’s a divide in the memories, skating the line of nostalgia and regret, submerged both in deep admiration for the moments worth holding and drowning at the same time, gasping for resolution, for forgiveness, finding solace only in knowing that tomorrow’s memories are whole, yet to be broken by mistakes or the complexities of emotion.

Today is a brand new day, a day to let go, a day to take hold, a day to live in the moment. We are all shaped by our histories. They are written in the scars in our skin and the rhythms of our hearts, but those marks of yesterdays do not dictate who we will be today. Let what once was live in memory. Laugh at the good ones and learn from the bad ones. Remember, you are always moving forward.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, beauty, poety, writing

The True Orchid

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

The True Orchid I walked right past it the first time— hidden behind the ones begging for eyes like supermodels, asking for attention in the spotlight. The plaque at the entrance of the exhibit talked about the rarities of these flowers, but as I moseyed through by myself I felt underwhelmed. It was only on my second time around the room, that I caught the hint of pink peeking out from behind a white array, an interruption of the purity surrounding. I stopped walking, wishing I could step off the path and get a closer look at the most intriguing orchid in the room, the one hiding its splendor, the one that so many people missed.

I don’t often write about flowers. Though I love nature, I never feel particularly inspired by it. However, there was something about this experience today that grabbed me. It was as if the hiding orchid had an emotion, or at least scratched at the emotions I was feeling in that moment. I’m still not even sure what that flower looked like, recessed off the pathway, but by far it was my favorite one today.

If you’re wondering, the exhibit is at the Missouri Botanical Gardens in St. Louis. It’s a beautiful and historically significant place that I highly recommend you visit.

Good night lovelies!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, Guest post, poetry, writing

Guest Post: The Village Thinker

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Guest Post by The Village Thinker

About the Author:

A a young Ghanaian student-poet, Nana Arhin Tsiwah know in poetry circles as “The Village Thinker” uses livid words to tell tales of old, of history and tradition.

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Posted in art, poetry, writing

Stance

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Stance It’s the stance of someone beaten. I don’t need to know the origin of your bruises or why you hunch your shoulders to deflect eye contact. I hear it in your silence and see it in your hiding, buried beneath pretend apathy, the lies of a fight too fresh to pass the lump in both our throats. I’m not asking you to speak, but beg you to believe we can look west together, comrades of pasts not yet set. We’ve got time to face each other when the sun bleaches the marks on your heart. Writing has been a struggle lately. I spent at least a week and a half incapable of finishing a single poem. I’d start them, sometimes even reaching the second to last line, and then shut my notebook. But this one just happened. I didn’t fight for it or resent it halfway through. It was organic and soothing and I think I know why. I’ve been focusing on me lately, focusing on what I’m feeling and holding on to negativity like a magnet. This poem was a break from that. It’s about someone else and I’m super relieved that something inside me compelled me to reach outside my own brain for inspiration.

Have a great week!

–Leanne Rebecca

 

Posted in art, Guest post, poetry, writing

Guest Post: Lauren Laperriere

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

dust to dust poem

Meet the author:

Hi, I’m Lauren. I’m a 22 year old Bostonian writer, poet, photographer, pianist, and belly dancer. I just graduated with my MA in English with a BA in English and Creative Writing from Brandeis University. Creating art is who I am, not what I do. I like to see the beauty in things that people pass by.

Follow Lauren:

@Lauren_L_ 

http://oldpoeticsoul.wordpress.com/

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