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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: outsider

  • Pull the Lever — Poetry, Hip-Hop, Cadence & the Music That Shaped Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve written before about how much Hip-Hop shaped the way I write, but Pull the Lever is a little more personal about that history.

    I got into Hip-Hop young—around nine years old—and artists like DMX, Eminem, Ludacris, Mystikal, and 2Pac became part of the musical landscape I grew up in. I wasn’t trying to become a rapper; I was learning cadence. I was listening to how words moved, how syllables landed, how rhythm could turn language into something physical.

    That influence never really left.

    As I got older, though, my musical world expanded beyond American Hip-Hop. I started listening to music in other languages, and eventually Korean Hip-Hop became part of that landscape too. The final section of this poem deliberately crosses that bridge: Outsider, MC Sniper, and Drunken Tiger are Korean Hip-Hop references, following the line about me mentally crossing the sea.

    There’s something fitting about that progression. The kid who learned cadence from American Rap eventually became a writer whose relationship with rhythm stretched far beyond one language, one country, or one genre.

    I may write poetry, but the rapper’s mind is still wired into the pen.

    — Rowan Evans

    A notebook and pen surrounded by Hip-Hop imagery, transitioning from an American cityscape into a Korean night skyline, with subtle tiger and rhythmic sound motifs.
    From American Rap to Korean Hip-Hop, the rhythm stayed with me—the cadence simply crossed the sea.

    Pull the Lever
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Pull the lever to find out
    what the cow says—

    The cow says, “move bitch,
    get out the way”—
    like Ludacris and Mystikal,
    don’t piss me off,
    my shit gets mythical.

    I was nine,
    memorizing every line
    that DMX spit—
    like the Ruff Ryders Anthem,
    that was my shit.

    I learned the cadence from Em,
    so when I spit, I spit like Slim—
    not a rapper, just a writer
    with a rapper’s mind wired in.

    I got into Hip-Hop
    the same year
    we lost Pac—
    that was ’96,
    in case you forgot.

    And in my teens,
    I took my love for the game
    and mentally
    crossed the sea—

    I was an outsider,
    so I found the Outsider
    that spoke to me.

    And I studied religiously—
    until my lines hit
    with the precision of a Sniper.

    Hit the bars too hard,
    got my Tiger’s heart
    feeling like a Drunken master.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Slim & Shady Series]

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Sound as a Vessel | A Poem About Music, Identity, and Creative Influence

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Music has always been more than background noise to me.

    It’s emotional architecture.

    There are songs that feel tied to specific versions of myself, specific periods of my life, specific emotional states I don’t know how to explain outside of sound.

    When I write, I usually start with music first. Not ideas. Not themes. Feeling.

    I sit in silence with headphones on and let the music guide me somewhere emotionally honest.

    This piece came from thinking about how deeply international my creative influences really are.

    A lot of the sounds that shaped me came from places I’ve never physically been: the Philippines, South Korea, Japan, Thailand.

    And over time, those influences stopped feeling external. They became part of my emotional language.

    Part of my rhythm. Part of my imagery. Part of how I understand myself creatively.

    Also: yes, “Morning Daughters” is intentional.

    It’s a poetic translation of the J-pop group Morning Musume because the translated phrasing fit the cadence of the piece better.

    That felt appropriate for a poem about translation, transformation, and reshaping influence into something personal.

    Because that’s ultimately what art is.

    Taking in sound, emotion, memory, culture— and turning it into your own voice.

    — Rowan Evans

    A poet wearing headphones sits surrounded by music, poetry pages, and dreamlike international city lights blending together.
    Some people travel by plane.
    I travel by sound.

    Sound as a Vessel
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I want to take a moment
    to talk about process—

    the way I’ll sit
    in silence,
    with nothing
    but the sound
    from my headphones.

    I sit, unmoved
    and let the music
    wrap around me.

    I let it guide my emotion
    and lead me where it may.

    This is when I reach
    across shores,
    ignoring borders—

    I reach for the sounds
    that soothe me,
    the sounds that move me
    and make me feel.

    I follow the notes
    like they’re breadcrumbs—

    back to the places
    my body has never lived
    but my heart remembers.

    This is how I travel—

    how I return
    to the versions of myself
    I haven’t met yet.

    I put my headphones on
    and drift away—

    through different worlds,
    from XG to Young Ji—
    MILLI and 4EVE.

    Then I drift back—
    MC Sniper, Outsider
    and Drunken Tiger.

    It’s like I walk
    through time,
    using sound
    as the vessel.

    Then I hit Japan,
    Morning Daughters
    surround me.
    Up next THE GAZETTE,
    then Hamasaki Ayumi. (Queen!)

    These are the sounds
    that shaped my DNA.

    Eminem lit the fire,
    Ez Mil made it brighter.

    I broke teeth
    on Lee Hyori. (Queen!)

    And I’ve expanded,
    put more colors
    on the canvas.

    More lines
    in my rhymes.

    BINI, SB
    19 and G22
    Hev Abi, Skusta Clee,
    Sarah Geronimo too—

    just to change the shape
    of the soundscape.

    I use sound like paint
    to make pictures,
    mix it with my emotions
    to find the perfect hue.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Just Knowing You Has Been Enough]
    “Just Knowing You Has Been Enough” is a deeply vulnerable free verse poem about unspoken love, emotional fear, coded confessions, and the quiet truth of caring for someone without needing perfection in return.

    [The Streets I Walk When I Sleep]
    “The Streets I Walk When I Sleep” is a deeply intimate free verse poem about recurring dreams, emotional connection, longing across distance, and the strange feeling of remembering places and moments that have never happened in waking life.

    [Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life

    [Separate Timelines]
    “Separate Timelines” is a surreal and deeply introspective free verse poem about emotional distance, time zones, vulnerability, and the fear of losing a connection that already feels meaningful before the words are ever spoken aloud.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Between Walls and Whispers (Ghost and Witness) – Poetry by Rᵒᵒ ᵗʰᵉ Pᵒᵉᵗ

    Rowan Evans

    Introduction

    Sometimes, the quiet isn’t empty. 
    Sometimes, it carries you, like a pulse behind the walls. 
    Here, in the hush, I watch. 
    Here, in the stillness, I breathe. 
    Here, I am seen, even when no else is. 
     
    — Rᵒᵒ ᵗʰᵉ Pᵒᵉᵗ

    Ethereal figure standing in a dim room, light streaming through cracks, evoking quiet and introspection.
    “Surrounded in silence, both ghost and witness.” – Rᵒᵒ ᵗʰᵉ Pᵒᵉᵗ

    Between Walls and Whispers (Ghost and Witness)
    Pᵒᵉᵗʳʸ bʸ Rᵒᵒ ᵗʰᵉ Pᵒᵉᵗ

    Sometimes, I find myself 
    surrounded in silence— 
    not absence, 
    but a quiet hum behind the walls. 
    The room feels full, 
    but nobody’s really there, 
    and I am both ghost 
    and witness— 
     
    drifting, endless, 
    caught in this forced flow 
    of normalcy. 
     
    A weirdo, 
    misfit, outcast— 
    purposeful outsider, 
    rejector of the machine. 
     
    I don’t want to be another cog. 
    Sometimes, I long for silence— 
    not the absence, 
    but that gentle presence, 
    a pulse softer 
    than the endless hum. 
     
    And in that silence, I breathe. 
    I am seen, 
    I am held, 
    not by voices or eyes, 
    but by the quiet 
    that understands 
    what the hum 
    cannot touch.

    If you’re looking for more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]