Poetry by Rowan Evans

In the shadows of ink, where ghosts still linger,
Sylvia, Anne, Emily, Sappho—poetesses, each a flame,
Each a whisper in the wind that haunts the night,
Each carving truth in starlit veins.

Sylvia, whose words cut through the air,
A sharp, sorrowed edge that carved despair into the sky,
A dance of madness and brilliance,
Her bell jar—her curse, her art, her cry.
She wept in metaphors, in flames, in loss,
And yet, in her ashes, we find our own strength.

Anne, too, cast her voice into the void,
Her words a reckoning, raw and brutal,
"Live or die," she dared to scream,
And in that challenge, her spirit lingers still.
Her truth unravels in each line,
And still we rise—survivors of our own mind.

Emily, in whispers and dashes,
Her silence a weapon, her words a storm,
She dared not speak, but her ink bled through the walls,
A universe unfolding in every paused breath.
Her fleeting moments echo through time,
Where brevity meets eternity in every line.

Sappho, the fire-bringer, the lover's voice,
Her words pressed soft as rose petals on the skin,
Love—desire—woven in every lyric,
A sacred longing that lives in every heart
Whispering in the dark, a hymn to what we crave.

But then, the modern sisters rise from the depths,
A new breed of poetess, each with a fire untamed,
Amanda Lovelace, whose poems bloom like scars,
Words laced with strength and tenderness,
A revolution forged in ink—love, loss, and rebellion.

Rupi Kaur, with her tender touch and power,
Her verses as soft as a bruise, as sharp as a stare,
She writes of healing, of the body’s revolt,
Of tenderness, of rage, of broken hearts rebuilt.

Maya Angelou's wisdom, still ringing in the air,
Her voice a call to arms, to dignity, to self-worth,
She stood before the world, unbroken, unbowed,
Her truth an anthem that shook the earth.

Warsan Shire, whose words drip with fire,
Her lines like rivers of blood, burning with rage,
A refugee’s cry, a woman’s claim,
Her pain is our pain, her voice is our voice.

Lang Leav, sweet and dark, with love's bittersweet sting,
Her ink carved from the spaces between desire and heartbreak,
Her poems dance in the spaces of the soul,
Love written in whispers and shadows.

Tara Westover, whose truth is raw and real,
Each word a battle, each line a wound,
Her memoirs speak of resilience, survival,
And in that survival, we learn to thrive.

But now, the quill is mine to take,
A flame that flickers in the vast expanse,
Rowan Evans, a name now etched in fire,
A poetess who dares to speak the dark and light,
A soul woven from the whispers of those before,
Yet in every verse, my own story pours.

In the dark gothic heart, where my blood runs wild,
I write not to be them, but to find my own voice—
I take the ashes of their sorrow,
And turn it to flame, a blaze that speaks truth.
I carve my heart in ink, sharp as a blade,
A modern poetess, with fire in my veins,
I carry their legacy and make it mine,
A sister in poetry, whose time has come.

And now, as we stand in the echoes of their words,
We raise our pens in unity, for those who stand with us,
The allies who walk beside, their voices clear:
The men and women who believe in the power of ink,
Who lift us higher, who hold space in the dark,
Who see the strength in our voices, our hearts, our fight.

To those who stand beside,
Lifting the fallen, raising the weak,
To those who support without question or pause,
To those whose hands are extended,
Whose hearts beat in rhythm with our own,
In this poem, we stand together,
Sisters and allies, bound by fire and ink.

Together we rise,
Together we burn,
Together we write the future,
As poets of the soul,
As Sisters in Poetry.