Laura, a Peaceful Wordsmith

Our Year 13 student Laura, has left us speechless. Not only does she have all the right words, but she knows how to use them in her marvellous poems. Besides being a BSB Reporter, she is the editor-in-chief of hARTS International, a magazine founded by her. As if this wasn’t enough, she was recently selected from a pool of 800 international people as the youngest Romanian representative for the annual ’Mili Dueli‘ Poetry Contest. The championship is an internationally recognised, six-month-long event that strives to promote peace in the Balkans. We wish her the very best in her poetic endeavours, and we leave you with samples of her work.

unwritten ink

(First-round winner and selected for duels as youngest Romanian representative)

it’s there waiting to be used

the ink flowing through the filter and the cap slips from the desk;

the unknown hand beholds the pen, tightly squeezes the body

twists and turns the metal frame

cracks and bends the fragile mane

the sound of the lid echoes through the basement

the click.

then silence

then back to card and paper

the gentle twist of the corner of the mouth and the rescued breath that follows

the beholder of knowledge -

the keeper of the strength

the audience waves through his feelings

he acknowledged his motives;

places the tip onto the lines and square and sighs

again

the corner falls back to its place as if concentration dissipated

the laughter replaces the writing

and then

the smile

is caught in the storyline of the hem

my friends and my character and my family and my life

then -

my fails and my cries and my memories and my regrets

the hand moves faster than my synapses can retain

the crooked fingers altered as if in pain;

lay out the thread of my life

its black on white words

yet affect my whole person

I blink once again and he crumbles it up -


Blood

My life is a poem written in blood,

Both flesh and bone giving into the flood

Of emotions and feelings of hatred and love

And it’s something that seems like I cannot control

It’s getting out of hand, the world is turning cold -

My life is a poem written in tears

That often succumbs to the flow of my fears,

That linger and wait and impatiently gather at the end of my eyes,

To spill they should not bother -

My life is a poem written in breaths

I live on borrowed time.

I consume borrowed air.

Yet when asked to give it back,

I rebel against both patience and care -

My life is a poem written in gold;

The letters so dear, so dimly bold.

Words made out of thoughts,

Words more precious than stone,

Phrases that could kill

Glares that mirror the soul -

My life is a poem written by hand

A sprawl of imagination, a work of art, a strand

Of hope, of light, a simmering sight

Before it all goes black.

The life spills,

Out of my hand.

It’s out of reach;

I ask the next sinner to stand -


Trapped in ink

Memories splashed

On a blank sheet of paper;

Thoughts that we’ll all

Laugh and cry later;

Feelings and beliefs

That form and shape her.

No free escape

From the passage of time we’ve came through;

Laughter and smiles

Are now all pictures having no clue;

They’re in writing, however hollow,

In ink both black and blue.

For all the rumours that she heard

She can’t believe that they are true.

Hollow, blank, with a pitch-black stare

She can’t remember is she Noir or Claire.

The fire inside is just a flare

That has been stopped with just a stare.

She’s trapped in ink,

Trying to escape - thinking she can –

However her right to speak, her gate to freedom,

Is what they’ll first ban.

September 2020