Laura, a Peaceful Wordsmith
Our Year 13 student Laura, has left us speechless. Not only does she have all the right words, but she knows how to use them in her marvellous poems. Besides being a BSB Reporter, she is the editor-in-chief of hARTS International, a magazine founded by her. As if this wasn’t enough, she was recently selected from a pool of 800 international people as the youngest Romanian representative for the annual ’Mili Dueli‘ Poetry Contest. The championship is an internationally recognised, six-month-long event that strives to promote peace in the Balkans. We wish her the very best in her poetic endeavours, and we leave you with samples of her work.
unwritten ink
(First-round winner and selected for duels as youngest Romanian representative)
it’s there waiting to be used
the ink flowing through the filter and the cap slips from the desk;
the unknown hand beholds the pen, tightly squeezes the body
twists and turns the metal frame
cracks and bends the fragile mane
the sound of the lid echoes through the basement
the click.
then silence
then back to card and paper
the gentle twist of the corner of the mouth and the rescued breath that follows
the beholder of knowledge –
the keeper of the strength
the audience waves through his feelings
he acknowledged his motives;
places the tip onto the lines and square and sighs
again
the corner falls back to its place as if concentration dissipated
the laughter replaces the writing
and then
the smile
is caught in the storyline of the hem
my friends and my character and my family and my life
then –
my fails and my cries and my memories and my regrets
the hand moves faster than my synapses can retain
the crooked fingers altered as if in pain;
lay out the thread of my life
its black on white words
yet affect my whole person
I blink once again and he crumbles it up –
Blood
My life is a poem written in blood,
Both flesh and bone giving into the flood
Of emotions and feelings of hatred and love
And it’s something that seems like I cannot control
It’s getting out of hand, the world is turning cold –
My life is a poem written in tears
That often succumbs to the flow of my fears,
That linger and wait and impatiently gather at the end of my eyes,
To spill they should not bother –
My life is a poem written in breaths
I live on borrowed time.
I consume borrowed air.
Yet when asked to give it back,
I rebel against both patience and care –
My life is a poem written in gold;
The letters so dear, so dimly bold.
Words made out of thoughts,
Words more precious than stone,
Phrases that could kill
Glares that mirror the soul –
My life is a poem written by hand
A sprawl of imagination, a work of art, a strand
Of hope, of light, a simmering sight
Before it all goes black.
The life spills,
Out of my hand.
It’s out of reach;
I ask the next sinner to stand –
Trapped in ink
Memories splashed
On a blank sheet of paper;
Thoughts that we’ll all
Laugh and cry later;
Feelings and beliefs
That form and shape her.
No free escape
From the passage of time we’ve came through;
Laughter and smiles
Are now all pictures having no clue;
They’re in writing, however hollow,
In ink both black and blue.
For all the rumours that she heard
She can’t believe that they are true.
Hollow, blank, with a pitch-black stare
She can’t remember is she Noir or Claire.
The fire inside is just a flare
That has been stopped with just a stare.
She’s trapped in ink,
Trying to escape – thinking she can –
However her right to speak, her gate to freedom,
Is what they’ll first ban.
September 2020
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