My First Poetry-Sharing

*NOTE: For more information on the reading and prompt that inspired this essay please click here.

I was first up. But I had asked for it. I had never been to one of these events, but I still pushed myself to go first. I was sure that other performers felt the same jitters going through their unsettled fingers that held onto little sheets of paper or even journals. Those carrying journals impressed me to no end as I would imagine all the nights and mid-day epiphanies they would scribble onto a page, or even the day dreams and lofty thoughts they would half-way draw and frivolously write in hopes of capturing. These were true poets awaiting their moment to astound us with their words so profound that we would have to sit in silence and feel the urge to resist clapping because we didn’t want to ruin the moment into which they drew us.

I knew, at a place like this, that honesty surrounded me. Words of vulnerability, serious topics based on real experiences, and faces from different places gathered into this single space. I figured, before the windows got foggy from a room stuffed with emotions running, I should go first.

At my very first spoken word event, I decided to open with my original short poem about sharing a bathroom. To ease in, I figured my bathroom humor would shake the nervousness off everyone’s shoulders and hopefully my own. After I shared, the day after the event, people still remembered my bathroom poem and said they enjoyed it. Yet, this was just one of my pieces of the night; I had read and performed three more originals – one that I didn’t even think could be considered a poem. But when taking the risk, people found that last piece to be their favorite. It was raw. It was written in two minutes, but had been thought about and realized over twenty-two years. The experience was amazing.

By trying out this new outlet, a place to perform real pressing material in front of an open-minded audience, I found myself absorbing life experiences that I never knew about. My ears were on edge, my lips at ease from neither wanting to speak nor wanting to refrain from speech, and my fingers a little tingly from feeling the powerful vibrations of the voice. This was a place you could surrender yourself easily, yet somehow walk out with a greater grasp of who you are and the things you care about.

I decided to expand on my challenge from last quarter but in a different form; instead of singing cover songs in front of a crowd, I performed an original piece in the form of a poem. Being in front of a crowd is one fear to overcome, but sharing a piece that comes from your mind is a greater challenge in the sense that you are uncertain if your audience will like your ideas, thoughts, word choice or composition. However, being at a spoken word event, I was more concerned with my delivery. This is similar to my last challenge except greater because I was not only worried if people would like my voice but also if I was communicating my ideas clearly and effectively with the tone shifts and volume of my voice.

Overall, I would say this challenge was a learning experience – one that helped me learn what it means to be a poet on stage; the one who embodies experiences through language and sounds and who brings these tense emotions to life through subtle bodily motions. Something that would have helped me during this first performance is if I didn’t think of spoken word as delivering a performance but rather an outlet for a body and mind trying to relive the moment or subject of the poem and convey its meaning in the best way possible. I think it should be an emotional experience, one where you really have to trust yourself to be so passionate about the subject that you forget anything else in periphery – all bodies, all eyes, all judgments – and you are sharing this moment with one subject, one entity, whether it be slow dancing or yelling over who left the faucet running. To be a spoken word poet means to be in touch with yourself and to be so honest—so raw—that the stage is nothing but another outlet to liberate you.

*

Post submitted by: Christina Trieu.

A Song of Support

*Note: For more information on the prompt that inspired this essay please click HERE

A song of support.

Ashton Rosin

The sterile barrier fabricated a trajectory that could never be stopped,

was halted. A flash of fluorescent light illuminating in scope, stung. It stung.

Frozen and flowing the tears curbed my breath and the inertia of the uncontrollable

Swallowed me. I was drowning.

Sheer disappointment trembled my hands and I could not reach up.

My finger brushed the silver lining of empowerment until a stumble closed eyes and

A fall. Trust in a system in a world of wonder and wonderful and fullness of life

Was robbed and crumbling and destructive hope earthquaked my existence.

It was a construction. It was shallow. It was coping.

A sad soul slipped through the cracks undulating between bridges of faith

Reason robbed relentless loneliness rocking gently as a hum.

A murmur turned whisper was a voice just deeper.

A song of support. I was loved.

a whirling abyss

hollow trickling become

a blink ascend now

Dissatisfaction. This word most directly embodies my raw response to my own process of poem writing. Prior to what some may call a journey of poetry, I was simply nervous. I was anxious to delve into something that I am extremely uncomfortable with as I feel like poetry is a very wide open window into the personal, the intimate life experiences, raw human emotion, and for me an unrefined writing voice. Poetry makes me vulnerable, it makes me feel weak. But mostly it makes me feel fearful of how the words of the poem sometime incite buried emotion I am not equipped to process. There never seems to be the right word at my fingertips. This poem in particular encouraged me to even be vulnerable in my use of punctuation, or lack there of. In the name of creating a fitting sense of flow throughout the poem, I forced myself to forgo mainstream punctuation rules and be reckless in order to truly embrace my vulnerability in the realm of the unknown.

I was an avid poem writer as a child and actively shelved it because, for me it is reminiscent of some of life’s greater hurdles. But as I approach another set of hurdles, different in scope and shape, I may need to dust off my journal and take a deep breath to immerse myself in the vulnerable once again. 

Post Submitted By: Ashton 

A Woman is Born

*Note: For more information on the prompt that inspired this essay please click HERE

A lonely bench stands alone like a lighthouse in a sea of grass. Tense hands grasp its worn curved edge, which softly holds the memories of those there before. Who else has come before the pair that it beholds today? The cold air clutches at the hushed uttered words of the young girl upon it, cutting like a knife into her heart, reminding her of a time where the cold meant the presence of a warm heart next to hers. Knees once clutched together, fall apart like a slow falling tree now faced with the heavy hopelessness that must be accepted. Silence reigns like a heavy blanket beneath the dark speckled sky, burdened with the parting that is to come. Soft footsteps slowly fade into nothingness, signaling her heartstrings coming undone. Tense hands, once wound with hope, are now clasped tightly into shaking fists.

Exquisite heartache

Words unsaid now locked away

Memories rush past

Her body curls like an unborn child in the womb, hair draped in a cascade of shadows and darkness. Time stands still as silent salty tears achingly fall, making new streams across her frost bitten face. The quiet is abruptly broken by the rustling of layered clothing. Muscles harshly contract to gain a shell of composure and normalcy. Tears trickle like a broken faucet that refuses to be fixed. A soft whoosh rushes past her lips as a fog- like air of acceptance wraps around her, cocooning the raw raging sea within her. The world tumbles past. The bench clasps a new memory as it reigns the gentle sloping hill with one alone.

Unseen scars cut deep

Criss crosses of strength appear

A woman is born

The satisfaction and release I gain through creative writing gives me the time to self- reflect on aspects of myself that I leave hidden from everyday life. For this poem, I challenged myself to share a very private moment that I wouldn’t typically go into detail about. It was actually mentally exhausting to force myself to remember a time that was so emotionally charged. I also constantly question if I used the right words, the right phrases to truly express my thoughts at that moment. However, allowing myself to think in detail of such a pivoting time in my life gave me the release and closure I needed to truly face my future with an open heart and mind. I admit that this process was daunting at first, but the journey to accepting and validating all aspects of yourself is what prompts growth. The person I am today is the result of my past, and I want to continue to appreciate and self-reflect on my experiences through creative writing. Being open to appreciating the times I am vulnerable allows me to better express my voice through writing. 

Post Submitted by Lauren

Why do I write?: Reflections and Poetry by Ashley Bennett

Why do I write? Why do I write day after day, night after night? Why do I torture myself with the frustration of world-building, the heartache of a bad piece, the weariness of many long journeys? Why do I endure writer’s block, pushing through it, fighting it, forcing my mind to work well beyond its limits? Why do I write down the bizarrity in my head, the dreams that others can’t see, the worlds that only I envision? Why do I write tragic endings, the destruction of a moment, the torment of a soul, the process of rising again, the thrill of finally overcoming something?

Why do I write? Why do I pen down my thoughts? Why do I write poetry, the release of internal conflicts, emotions, stressors, and world views? Why do I force my thoughts to conform to rhyme and meter, to say the most with the least? Why do I think outside the box to present things in a different light? Why do I write down these things and so much more?

Why do I write?

Because I must.

…

I write for the readers,

The wanderers,

The dreamers,

The ones who see with their minds.

I write for those who hope,

Those who wish,

Those who wonder.

Sometimes I write for the mad,

The ones who see things differently,

The ones who aren’t afraid of the unknown,

The ones who dream by day.

I write for the poets,

The authors,

The wannabes.

I write for myself,

For my insane beliefs,

For my wandering mind,

An outlet for my thoughts.

I write for the singers,

Those who aways hear songs,

Those who can make music with anything,

Those who dance to unheard beats.

I write for the optimists,

Those who see only beauty,

Those who hear only wonderment,

Who feel only hope,

Who seek the brightness.

I write for the pessimists,

Those who see the darkness,

The ones who hear the cries,

Who wish they could hope,

Who cling to the shadows.

I’m stuck in the middle.

I don’t write for publishers,

Unless they really hear me,

Unless they see my voice,

Unless they understand.

I write for the minority,

Those who don’t follow the crowds,

The rebels,

The fighters.

I write for the strong-willed,

The ones who don’t give up,

The ones who stick to their beliefs,

Who never back down.

I don’t write what others want me to write,

I write what’s in my mind,

I’ll write what I want to write,

I’ll write for the sake of writing.

I write for the sun and the moon,

The stars and the clouds,

The trees and the flowers,

The forest and the ocean,

The desert and the grasslands.

I won’t write for the city,

I won’t praise tree-chopping,

I won’t praise the pollution,

I won’t praise the destruction.

I write for the world.

I won’t write for its death.

Writing on the spot,

Planning nothing out,

Just writing,

Letting my fingers type,

My mind spell out the words.

I’m in a trance,

I always am.

Nothing on my mind,

Music in my ears,

Letting everything fade away,

Zoning out,

Leaving the world

If only for a moment.

I write for the dreamers,

The ones who wish,

The ones who wonder,

The ones who dream by day,

The ones who read and read,

Maybe they write,

Maybe they feel the world’s heartbeat beneath them.

I write for those who see what’s not there,

I write for those who hear the ever-present music,

I write for those who dream.

Because the world could use some dreamers.

Only dreamers can see.

Everyone else is blind.

I write because I write.

To make the world slow down.

Post submitted by Ashley

Jadessa’ Shakespearean Sonnet : ” The Irrelevance of Relevancy”

All-consuming stress occupy our days

While cumbersome thoughts occupy our nights

It is like we are living in a haze

No clarity within the fog in sight

The true meaning of life remains unknown

Impending downward spiral seems endless

This cycle of depravity has grown

We have given up and become thoughtless

When did we become so predictable

Society at large is unconcerned

All wrapped up in the metaphysical

Look to our past mistakes, have we not learned?

Collapse looms  if we do not stop to care

Once we reach that peak, then what else is there?

Post Submitted By Jadessa

Jadessa’s Haibun: “Sunset of my Soul”

Sunlight dimming through my window pane, cold breeze flowing through the room

Brisk, dense air tingling my skin giving me goose bumps

Standing on my balcony staring out into the scene of the winter dusk

The branches sway as I feel another small gust of wind glide against my skin

Hear the leaves rustle

The gentle sound of nature

Soothing to the soul

Dusk settling as I look out into the horizon

Pink and orange vibrant colors culminating the vast sky

I stare out feeling lost in the swirl of color

Letting my thoughts wonder like the clouds

Rush of emotion

Overriding my senses

Tears run down my cheek

As the sun sets so do my thoughts

The thoughts of what could be, what should be, what will be?

All I hear is the sound of the leaves rustling in the wind

And feel the air brush against my skin as I wind my thoughts in

Post Submitted by Jadessa

Lauren’s Haibun: “Barrier to my Heart”

I stare blankly into confused eyes. Syllables form in my head, but only garbled noises reach my ears. I press my toes into the ground, clench my fists in my pocket and try again. The air stills and blood pumps in my ears, hope welling up within me. Will she understand this time? Muddy confusion make way for clear clarity. A smile lights up her face. Yes she understand. The gap between three generations begins to narrow.

Language barriers

walls waiting to be broken

an anxious heart waits.

 

Post submitted by Lauren

Lauren’s Sestina: “Friends Forever?”

You always yearn for that group of friends

that can fill the night with laugher

ones that will stick by you forever

whether you act immature or loud

wishing that time can stand still

as the sun comes up over the end

A chapter of life must end

as you wave goodbye to your friends

hoping that next time you can still

smile with love and laughter.

You hope that the loud

fights of yesterday will be forgotten forever.

Real friendships are meant to last forever

that turn and twist without end.

You wonder if you can ever be as loud

as you were with your old friends;

those who just sit and laugh

at you for being so silly still.

You move on with life, wondering still

if you made the bonds that last forever.

You no longer spend every day in laughter

since you know all good things come to an end.

Life isn’t all about fund and friends

or acting impulsively loud.

The demands of life are loud

and clear as you stand still

in this harsh “real” world without friends.

You feel like the path stretches forever

hoping that at the tunnel’s end

you can finally give way to laughter.

Struggles have no time for laughter.

But as you live on you hear a loud

call in your soul to let the monotony end.

You realize that you can still

count on the bonds you made forever

ago with the people you once called your friends.

So in the end you realize you can still

spend each day with laughter without end

with those you made a pact to be “forever friends.”

Post submitted by Lauren

Casey’s Sestina: “Where to Find Happiness”

“Where to Find Happiness”—by Casey O’Neill

The purest form of happiness is children’s laughter.

They know not of life’s inequities nor of deep despair.

When I hear a child laughing, my heart melts instantly,

For a child’s innocence is something to be treasured.

This precious part of life must be preserved and never taken for granted;

A child’s naivety is more than a blessing in disguise.

Innocence becomes corrupted by reality, a wolf dressed in disguise.

He walks around perverting a child’s dreams and stealing away his laughter.

As quick as a flash of lightening, his terrible wish is granted:

The child is thrown into a dark, hopeless pit of despair.

The child must choose either good or evil (something he never before had treasured).

With the snap of a finger—and one poor decision—innocence vanishes instantly.

The child is now a teenager; he grew up instantly:

His view of the world is tainted by his experience with the wolf in disguise.

Instead of playing games like “tag,” “hide-and-seek,” and “search for the buried treasure,”

He looks to alcohol, drugs, and sex, hoping to find some laughter.

But his laughter is no longer genuine. No, it is full of despair

Because of the corruption this world with its filth has granted.

Before you know it, he’s an adult who says, “I’m unhappy”–a feeling he had granted.

Life becomes mundane, and the emotion of joy fades instantly

With the continuous and strenuous reminder of his despair.

Instead of sincerely being happy, he wears his smile as a disguise,

For that once pure, innocent boy no longer remembers his laughter.

“What then,” he thinks, “should be treasured?”

Helplessness, purposelessness, and hopelessness—these are what have been treasured

And stored in a dark, mysterious barn, the barn of wicked wishes granted.

It is here that the wolf gorges down all children’s laughter.

He devours their joy, licking it up like a bloody chicken murdered instantly.

He enjoys the taste of innocence being shredded to pieces; that’s why he wears a disguise.

His deception causes confusion for the vulnerable, causing them everlasting despair.

But certain adults, the lucky few out there, overcome their despair.

They look past all the pain, the shame, the corruption and focus on what was once treasured.

They realize that while it is easier to blame the wolf in disguise,

It is better to accept the fact every experience in life is one that has been granted

For the purpose of learning a lesson. While it may not be learned instantly,

Only time will restore you back to that place of beautiful childhood laughter.

Don’t wear a disguise, and don’t take lessons for granted;

Otherwise, you will spend life dwelling in despair instead of relishing in the treasured,

Precious moments of childhood. View life as such, and you will instantly, permanently lose your laughter.

Post submitted by Casey O’Neill

Lee’s Poetry

This first poem is a Shakespearean sonnet.  Having read most of Shakespeare’s sonnets this quarter for a class, I decided to write a response piece, taking Shakespeare’s common theme of admonishing his addressee (a virile youth) to give his beauty to the world to enjoy through procreation and address it from a modern perspective.

—

To husband nature’s riches is to waste;

Thine eyes should feed those which do need expans’n,

O thee that for the World’s splendour she madest.

So turn from self-wrought theme and unto son.

Of thy fine points your shadow cannot handle

As can the robed hand of un-eared dame,

Who need your spear to fortify her mantle

And yield t’you with crops and plenty game.

Impeach, and I excoriate you false;

Desires beget traditions beget desires

In ring-round way, a ritualized valse,

Our hand in ritualized hand to mire.

Men made Narcissus out of self-obsess,

So do your will and no man let possess.

 

My second poem is a haibun — a form particularly useful in conveying moments of dense internal movement:

He lay down in the grass, its texture and smell, and the heat of the day and its circling flies, reminding him of Saturdays in his youth, spent in reversible soccer jerseys and itchy shin guards.  The sound of children chattering drifted from the neighbor’s yard. “Pizza!” he heard them say. A paternal voice responded with something about “tonight’s party.” He remembered those sprawling summer days, seemingly interminable, spent in the sun reading, lying on the cold floor staring at the plaster ceiling, running around the kitchen as his parents prepared food, anticipating the deep afternoon that would surely bring groves of mysterious adults and their older children who would play hide and seek with him, after which he would end up on the couch in an unoccupied room, the day bitten off by exhaustion. He envied these kids and the sense of wonderment that still struck them in their daily lives, their compulsion to anticipate things (and their incredible inaccuracy at it) — the time between the anticipation and its resolution seemingly endless, kinetic with excitement. Then, the children’s voices stopped, replaced by silence.  It had been the TV.

Crushed grass under cleats

Turns to vapor upward bound—

Lingers, dissipates.

Posted by Lee Jasperse.

Sestina: ” Reminiscence of the Shoreline”

The Sound of the waves crashing against the shore

The feel of the chilly water against my skin

The vision of bright lights shining in the sky

are some things that make my soul come alive

The beach gratifies my senses to put my mind at ease

and put all my inhibitions and worries to rest

I often dream of being able to finally put all my worries to rest

Feeling carefree as I go to the beach and walk along the shore

I want to feel completely and utterly at ease

I want to feel a chill of happiness, not dread, beneath my skin

I want to accomplish things that make me feel alive

Like I can do anything, even touch the sky

I find true beauty in the night sky

When I lye down to sleep at night the sight of it puts me to rest

The stars make the night sky come alive

Like the waves cashing against the shore

And the feel of crisp air against my bare skin

Staring into the night sky puts my mind at ease

Nothing I have ever done has been done with ease

Like trying to reach for the sky

It’s difficult for me to be comfortable in my own skin

My anxiety always takes over, my nerves never rest

The water never reaches the shore

My senses rarely come alive

It begs the question what does it mean to be alive

Is the significance of life being able to go through it with ease?

Is life supposed to be an endless walk along the shore?

Or realizing the possibilities hidden in the sky

Is death the ultimate rest?

Are our personal barriers symbolized by our skin

Our essence and inner being are buried beneath our skin

When they are awakened we become truly alive

Upon our death our bodies are put to rest

Our souls become at ease

and our spirits float up into the sky

We no longer have to wonder aimlessly along the shore

When I’m gone let my soul rest, and my body go with ease

Let me feel the last tingle on my skin, as I reminisce of being alive

Let my soul rest in the sky, as my spirit looks down on the shore

Post Submitted by Jadessa

Casey’s Haibun: “Melancholy in the Form of a Rainstorm”

“Melancholy in the Form of a Rainstorm”—Casey O’Neill

 Inspired by the tragic tale of a friend caught in depression

Raindrops the size of cannon balls crash down on the earth.

Instead of mud puddles forming, I see large cracks spread across the deserted land.

The thunder does not echo in the distance; rather, it screams at me, foreboding doom.

The stench makes me quiver—blood never appeals to the senses.

I taste this murder scene upon my lips, turning away in disgust.

The wind is fierce and cold upon my back.

I refuse to turn back, for the past only reflects my misery and pain.

The chills of the wind make me shiver because icicles have formed on my ears, my breasts, my face.

My ears no longer hear, my breasts no longer bring life, my face no longer reflects my joyful spirit.

The whispers of the wind haunt me because the darkness of a whisper is frightening.

Darkness, like clouds on a rainy day, causes confusion—darkness is the unknown.

Life is frightening because of the unknown:

We cannot hear the melodic tunes of our destiny nor taste the bittersweet facts of the future.

The hearers of a whisper must strain their ears, intently focusing on every detail their

interlocutor breathes. Their breaths are puzzle pieces that must be woven together.

Like the hearers of the whisper, we are forced to pay attention to the few clues we are given;

we decipher the rest by speculating, hoping, dreaming, or brutally struggling to survive day-by-day .

Beauty is nothing

Without the Beast, whose name is

“Sir Calamity.”

Post submitted by Casey O’Neill

Lines of Beauty and Life: A Sestina

Streetlamps flicker on around the block

To drown the scintillation of the pricked star,

While powdered faces queue up in line

To throb away the memories of those they miss,

To dance across their heart’s break.

It’s miraculous they even can.

Sound shivers through them like the walls of an aluminum can;

Magnified images enter, occlude, and block.

A couple in a dark corner’s hearts break

Under the vibrata of a populist star

Whose name was once known in margins, but who’d missed

Her chance, devoted now isntead to the powdery line.

The ogee curves one way and another, is a line

That arches against itself, that can

Hit across all boundaries, then suddenly miss.

Its purposeless ornament dissipates, even as the sturdy block

Remains under that same glistering star

Beneath which all will link and all will break.

“Hey man, life’s shit and times are hard: cut me a break!”

But the dealer doesn’t forgive when you’ve  cut a line

Too many, even if you feel so much you burst like a star.

It’s not a matter of whether one cannot or whether one can,

But merely whether you threaten to block

A mister from having his miss,

In this case a tittilating white lady whom you can’t miss,

For to do so would be to break

The mechanized flow of chopping the block

And ordering the line

And huffing from the bottom of a can

And sharing a momentarily equal existence with a star.

Above her ass is a black tattoo of a star.

This is the image that haunts me when I miss

Her most, when I close my eyes and feel I can

Reinster muself into the break,

That I can reinvent our lives with in the white wedding line,

Until eventually the star is gone and all is black behind the block.

If this is all we can do, we must jumpt the break

Into the star that illuminates the cheek of that miss,

When we will be another streetlamp in that line on that block.

[Written by Lee]

Poetry: WSP Sestinas!

WSP is all about encouraging creativity in the writing process.  This week, we will be posting sestinas written by our staff within a 40 minute time constraint.

The sestina is a unique poetic form in which one reuses the end words.

• The lines are grouped into six sestets (six lines) and a concluding tercet (three lines). Thus a Sestina has 39 lines.
• Lines may be of any length. Their length is usually consistent in a single poem.
• The six words that end each of the lines of the first stanza are repeated in a different order at the end of lines in each of the subsequent five stanzas. The particular pattern is given below. (This kind of recurrent pattern is “lexical repetition”.)
• The repeated words are unrhymed.
• The first line of each sestet after the first ends with the same word as the one that ended the last line of the sestet before it.
• In the closing tercet, each of the six words are used, with one in the middle of each line and one at the end.
• The pattern of word-repetition is as follows, where the words that end the lines of the first sestet are represented by the numbers “1 2 3 4 5 6″:

•   1 2 3 4 5 6         – End words of lines in first sestet.
•   6 1 5 2 4 3         – End words of lines in second sestet.
•   3 6 4 1 2 5         – End words of lines in third sestet.
•   5 3 2 6 1 4         – End words of lines in fourth sestet.
•   4 5 1 3 6 2         – End words of lines in fifth sestet.
•   2 4 6 5 3 1         – End words of lines in sixth sestet.
•   (6 5) (2 4) (3 1)   – Middle and end words of lines in tercet.

Sample Sestina

September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,

It’s time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle’s small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac

on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.

It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.

But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.

Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.

Poetry

WSP Staff writes poetry inspired by a variety of readings for our personal and collective development.