Poetry is much more than something you may have read in your high school English class that was long, boring, and a little bit confusing. Poetry is about feelings; expressing those thoughts that rattle around in your mind until you fear you’ll explode. It is a way to give your voice some power, to comfort both those who read poetry and those who write it. To me, poetry is a friend that reminds you that you are not alone in the world.
I spoke to some students at Millersville University and compiled a short collection of poetry written by them. Check it out! Whether these beautifully worded thoughts will inspire you to write your own poetry or just comfort you, let’s appreciate some amazing talent! These girls have weaved such beautiful thoughts by using their words and I am thrilled to give them the opportunity to share their voice.
Privilege by Marina MacGregor
i sit in the shower
on borrowed water
rivers to nourish hundreds
rushing down my shoulders
the thought of someone’s bath
made of bottles
and the silt being filtered
from a child’s only drink
weighs down on those rivers
rushing down my shoulders
as i sit in the shower
with untouched skin
a full stomach
and hopes of a better tomorrow
Her strength came from the seasons by Jessie Garrison
Her strength came from the seasons.
She found compatibility in summer. Weather is warm and
inviting
Exactly how she prayed to be.
As autumn approached she conditioned herself to find beauty
in death.
Hopelessly waiting for her day to come.
Winter came swiftly as autumn ended. She realizes that
everything beautiful has to fall, at least once.
Spring is the time for renewal. As she stretches, waking up to
the birds chirping, she walks over to the mirror.
She says to herself “I am beautiful so I must fall. Nevertheless,
it is essential that I lift myself up afterwards, standing tall.”
I saved a butterfly’s life today by Lisa Shafer
She was twitching in the road when I went out for the mail
A car had just passed over her, barely missing her with its wheels,
and I stood still on the pavement for a moment,
wondering whether or not it was worth the effort to try to save her
Her right wing was tattered, she was shaking,
not unlike someone waiting, anxiously,
for the next round of whatever pain life plans on doling out to them,
like a leaf battered by the wind, barely holding on to its branch
My sandals slapped against the pavement as I jogged to the mailbox-
(Junk as usual)
-and back again to where she was attempting to stand
I spoke to her gently
while trying to slide the flimsy card-stock under her feet
At first, she resisted, either confused or afraid, or maybe both,
but the more I whispered to her, the quicker she shuffled forward,
until all six of her thin legs were perched, delicately,
on the battered bargain shoe coupon in my hands
Walking slowly, I escorted her out of the road, towards the trees
I could see her injuries more closely now:
her wing was torn at the edges, the end crumpled into itself
I winced and kept walking
and told her about how nice a sip of fresh water would be,
especially after the day she’d had,
while shielding her from the small gusts of wind
threatening to blow her away
Mid-sentence, just as we walked out of view of the road,
she flew away, effortlessly,
like she’d never been laying on the road, helpless, at all
For a moment, I was stunned,
before breaking into a smile and a short, proud laugh
I watched her sail on the breeze into the forest,
out of the forest, over my head, and into the distance
I do not think of myself highly;
I have never thought that I was important
to the operation of the universe
But, if someone were to ask me,
“What is the greatest thing you’ve ever done?”
I would tell them that I once stopped in the middle of the road
to rescue an injured butterfly
and, against all odds, she flew
I’m Me by Alyssa Matchett
I’m no J.K Rowling
I’m no Michael Jackson
I’m no Vincent Van Gogh
I can’t do anything just as they can do
I’m no professional author
I’m no pop star
I’m no painter
I don’t do it like they do
I am a writer
I am a musician
I am an artist
I can’t do it just like them
I can make up my own stories
I can put together my own music
I can sketch out an idea on a page
I can do it like me
I can’t start the next Harry Potter on my dinner napkin
I can’t compose the next pop hit of the century
I can’t paint a masterpiece on a canvas
I’m no J.K. Rowling
I’m no Michael Jackson
I’m no Vincent Van Gogh
I can’t do any of those skills as they can do
I am me
I am me
I am me
I can do any of those skills as I want to
I am me
There’s nothing to compare
I am me
I can do anything I set my mind to
Untitled by Kayla Preble
I’ve always hated endings.
It’s written all over the back covers of
All my books and the tear-stained end credits
Of my favorite film.
My heart sinks every time the sun does, because
The nighttime is far too dull, and
The crescent moon never cradles the stars.
–please don’t say goodnight.
Untitled By Miracle Brocco
the books have a charm that neither of us
can seem to get right,
A sort of papery comfort that would only
translate in your arms on a cold day.
But we are not these graceful, articulate
beings – we are their counterparts;
Clumsy and awkward in nature
We are lanky and disproportionate with
stuttered speech and misspoken jokes,
And yet we are the story I’d most like to read
out of this whole library.
You are the pages I’d like to scan, the words
I’d like to roll over on my tongue.
I only hope you find my story half as
Interesting.
HCXO, Hannah
*All images courtesy of Pinterest*