Poetry by Rowan Evans

I have heard the voices in the ink—
Sylvia, the bell jar still echoing,
her sorrow stitched into every breath I take.
She speaks not in screams,
but in a hush that silences the soul:
	
"I shattered myself to show you
what beauty can exist in broken things.
My metaphors were knives and mirrors—
and I turned them all inward
so you wouldn’t have to."

Anne follows like smoke behind glass,
confession in her marrow,
truth set ablaze in every poem.
She whispers with warmth and warning:
	
"I dared death to blink first—
and though it won,
my voice lives on in every girl
who pens pain into power.
Don’t flinch from your fire—
become it."

Emily comes in on the quietest breeze,
barefoot and breathless,
her dashes the pause between heartbeats.
She says without saying:
	
"I hid my verses in drawers,
pressed petals between the lines.
I was a secret blooming in silence—
and still I was found.
So write, even if no one looks."

And Sappho—oh, Sappho—
with lips kissed by longing,
her fragments still smolder with love unshamed.
She leaves no whisper behind, only flame:
	
"They tried to burn me from the records,
but desire survives.
Every word of yours that aches for her—
I have already written in stars."

And now I rise,
born of ink and ache,
my name etched in the shadows
between theirs.
I do not stand above them,
but among—
a sister in the circle,
hands stained with the same sacred fire.

So to you, future poetess,
with your storm yet to come,
your hands still inkless,
your truth still tucked beneath your ribs—
we bled through the darkness
so you could scream your truths in the light.
We carved our hearts into paper
so you’d know how to find yours.
We broke so you could build.
And now—
with trembling hands,
and a heart heavy with everything
we were never allowed to say,
I leave you this:
a page,
a pen,
and a whisper through time—
	
"Write, little one.
Write until the silence forgets your name.We will be listening."