A great young and upcoming writer is Bethany Vela (
http://lightofthefallen.blogspot.com/)
She gave me the permission to share these bits of writing and I wanted to show how talented she is.
She said that she was just typing randomly and these came to her, and she felt like it was awesome. It is! Though not exactly poetry, it is creative writing and is littered with descriptions. My favorite one shows the horror of war, the peace one can have with death, the cruelty of life and the thoughts of the writer on his innocent death.
“Shanti!” Christopher screamed as the building fell, silver stone and glass shattering, raining down as though in slow motion. Leaving Christopher to watch as the boy turned at the sound of his name, his green eyes meeting Christopher’s gaze. A smile touched the boy’s lips as Christopher shouted for him to run, his words too slow in coming as the world crumbled around him.
Shanti’s face filled with peace, his green eyes glinting with a mischievous smile as the building fell, hiding him from view. Burying him beneath the ash and stone, the one who had loved the sky and the sea. The one whose eyes shone so bright when he laughed, the one whom Christopher had loved with all of his spirit.
The one who hated war, the one who was afraid of nothing.
Not even death.
Was gone.
Buried beneath ash and stone. Far from the land he loved. Far from his books and writings. Far from his family.
Far from the light of the sky and the crashing of the waves.
Far from those who loved him.
Far, far away.
Beyond the land of the light.
And so, ended the life of Shanti Emera Hennan. The boy who loved his books, and the sea, and the one whom he swore to protect, all with an equal vivacity. The boy who had loved, and been loved by many.
In his mind, the light in Shanti’s eyes still shone, their emerald green undiminished. His yellow hair was still soft and buttery, unstained by ash or blood. A book in his hand and laughter upon his lips. His soul still hopeful, praying for peace. For the end of war and death, the end of all the senseless killing.
And yet now, where was he? Another casualty in a war not his own, a war he had hated, but a war he had fought in order to protect, to save, to heal. A war that had left him broken, crying out in the night, in bitter tears, not afraid of the fighting, nor of even death. But afraid of what those things might take from him. Afraid of what they, as all wars do, had already taken. His hope, his peace, his humanity, all torn away and broken, shattered upon the ashen ground. Leaving him an empty shell of the boy who had once laughed so freely and loved so openly.
Leaving him to die by the hands of one not in tenfold as noble of spirit as he. Crushed and broken against the earth, his green eyes no longer seeing the light or hope of the world, only the coldness of death. A life so cruel, as to kill one so gentle of spirit and hopeful of soul, was perhaps a life to dark for one such as he. For a scholar has no use of a book he cannot write in, and darkness has no use of a light in which it cannot cast its shadow.
The repeated use of the word "far" has the similar effect of the word "Bells" that appears in Edgar Allan Poe's The Bells.
