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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: power of words

  • Through the Page | A Thank-You Poem to Readers by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Every poem begins as something inside the writer, but once it reaches the page, it becomes an invitation. An invitation to look closer, wander through unfamiliar worlds, meet the monsters in the margins, and perhaps recognize a little of yourself along the way.

    Through the Page is my thank-you to everyone who has taken the time to read my work. Whether you’ve loved a poem, questioned it, laughed at it, or decided it wasn’t for you, you’ve still given something valuable: your time. And in a world where our paths may never cross, that small exchange between my thoughts and your mind means more than you might realize.

    Of course, I couldn’t leave a thank-you note alone without sending it through a few ravens and a detour through the fires of my imagination. My pen has never been particularly good at staying on track. But beneath all the chaos is something simple and sincere: thank you for being here, for reading my art, and for becoming part of a journey that began long before these words reached you.

    Salamat po. ありがとう.

    From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

    — Rowan Evans

    An open book glows with warm orange light as a raven, shadowy monsters, a raccoon in silk pajamas, and distant cosmic scenery emerge from its pages, symbolizing the connection between a poet and readers.
    Somewhere between the ravens, the monsters, and the raccoons in silk pajamas, we met through the page. Thank you for being part of the journey.

    Through the Page
    Poetry by Rowan Evavns

    If you’ve taken the time
    to sit with my rhymes—
    to read the thoughts
    from my mind—

    I thank you.

    Even if you didn’t like
    the words that I write—
    still I say, thank you.

    We’ll more than likely
    never meet,
    and unless you choose—
    no words exchanged.
    But we’ve connected—
    through the page,
    it was my thoughts
    to your brain.

    You’ve spent time with my ravens,
    you’ve seen the monster in the margins—
    peaked beyond the curtain,
    glanced into my dreams—

    a witness
    to every confession
    screamed.

    You walked with me on Pluto,
    watched the raccoons in silk pajamas—
    you were there
    when I gave up on ice,
    I was done being cold,
    so I wrote fire instead—
    I penned the flames from my head,
    it’s like I was the Ghost Writer—
    possessed by vengeance
    and Poets past.

    Okay, let me dial it back.

    I’m sorry, got a little off track—
    but you know by now,
    that’s what happens to me—
    it’s like my pen
    has got happy feet—

    anyway, back to the point of this—
    because believe it or not,
    there was a point to this—

    Thank you from the bottom of my heart,
    salamat po, for reading my art—
    ありがとう, for being even a small part
    of this journey that I’m on—

    Thank you, and I mean it—
    salamat po, without you
    none of this has any meaning.

    Journey into the Hexverse

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

  • Literarily Speaking | A Darkly Humorous Battle Poem About the Power of Words by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Sometimes the quiet person isn’t harmless.

    Sometimes they’re just taking notes.

    Literarily Speaking plays with the old assumption that silence means weakness—and then turns that assumption into a playground for metaphor, gothic imagery, and wordplay. The speaker doesn’t need fists, fury, or actual hatred to make an impact. A pen, a raven feather, a few rose petals, and a sufficiently sharp vocabulary will do just fine.

    The mythology of Wish-A-Motherfucker Wood and the Fuck Around Valley is deliberately ridiculous, because this piece knows exactly what it is doing: dressing poetic confidence up like a threat before revealing that the real damage is entirely literary.

    The point isn’t to hate harder.

    It’s to write sharper.

    Literarily speaking.

    — Rowan Evans

    A calm poet writes with a raven-feather quill and crimson rose-petal ink at a gothic desk surrounded by ravens and dark roses.
    I don’t need hate to eviscerate you—literarily speaking.

    Literarily Speaking
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    They think because I’m quiet,
    I’m an easy target—
    so they talk a lot,
    and they talk
    like they forgot
    where I stood,
    bitch, I came up in the—
    Wish-A-Motherfucker Wood.
    Nestled in the Fuck Around valley,
    come around here—you’ll Find Out.

    So I pen my threats
    in fresh crimson—
    ink made from rose petals,
    quill from raven feather—
    that’s why I write the way I do—
    because I know Unkindness well.
    I know the world can be cruel,
    but being full of hate isn’t cool—

    and that’s why
    I write the way I do—
    I don’t need hate
    to eviscerate you…

    literarily speaking…

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [The Playground]
    What happens when mythology stops being something to hide behind and becomes architecture for the imagination? The Playground (Language, Metaphors and More) explores Rowan Evans’s relationship with language, symbolism, metaphor, humor, and twenty-three years of turning the page into a place where anything can happen.

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

  • Conductor | A Poem About the Power of Words and Breath by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There are poems that ask you to listen.

    There are poems that ask you to feel.

    And then there are poems that quietly reach through the page and take hold of something you thought belonged entirely to you.

    Conductor comes from that space—the strange little boundary between writer and reader, where words stop being marks on a page and start becoming something physical.

    I wanted to play with that boundary.

    So take a breath before you begin.

    Then read.

    — Rowan Evans

    A mysterious conductor directs floating pages and strands of ink through a dark, empty concert hall.
    Some conductors lead an orchestra. Others conduct the breath between the lines.

    Conductor
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m a conductor—

    watch me
    control your breath.
    Won’t even
    be in the room—

    you just have
    to read the words
    that I’ve left—

    you can feel
    my influence
    in your chest—

    I confess—

    you breathe the way I tell you to,
    this is what I will do—I will extend the lines,
    implement some rhymes—show you,
    that your breath is not your own,
    it is mine to control—

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [The Crypt]
    A mysterious man watches from a crypt as a woman enters the graveyard and kneels before an unnamed grave. In this compact gothic poem, fascination, death, and possession blur together beneath the shadows of the cemetery.

    [Dreaming Wrong]
    A familiar dream becomes unsettling when the ocean becomes a pond, the tide disappears, the moon loses its reflection, and nothing feels quite like it belongs. Dreaming Wrong explores the uncanny feeling of finding yourself inside a dream that looks familiar—but feels like someone else’s.

    [Did You Really Think This Was About Trees?]
    A playful love poem disguised as a forest of terrible tree puns. Beneath the birch, oak, cedar, palms, lumber, and absurdist wordplay is a poem about devotion, loyalty, laughter, and building a life with someone you love.

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

  • Etched in Memory | A Poem About Restraint, Truth, and the Weight of Words

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem came from the space between impulse and consequence—the moment when truth is sharp enough to wound, and restraint becomes a form of survival. Etched in Memory is about knowing exactly how much damage your words can do, and choosing silence not because you are wrong, but because you are precise.

    Some of us learn early that a look can say too much, that honesty—when fully unleashed—doesn’t fade. It marks. It lingers. It becomes permanent.

    This piece is a quiet confession of power held back, of violence softened into poetry, of restraint learned the hard way. Not because the truth wasn’t there—but because it would have lasted.

    — Rowan Evans

    A shadowed figure looking away as dark ink bleeds from their eyes, symbolizing restraint, silence, and words etched into memory.
    Some truths don’t need to be spoken to be permanent.

    Etched in Memory
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    My eyes learned restraint—
    before my mouth ever did.
    So I wouldn’t betray myself
    when I talked my shit.

    It was all—
    facts (fax), no printer.
    I did not
    speak a lie.

    But I
    would try
    not to speak at all.

    Because my eyes
    learned restraint—
    before my mouth ever did.

    Yet, they would
    always
    push me.

    Until…

    I would
    poetically
    dissect them—

    methodically
    dismember,
    until they
    remember.
    My words
    etched
    in memory.

    But my eyes
    learned restraint—
    before my mouth ever did.

    So I look away…

    to stop this shit.

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