by Carson Roberts and Brett Lee Walton
Steven Turner is a very talented senior at Walker, specifically excelling in poetry. Steven began writing simple rhymes at age 8. What started as merely a hobby eventually 
turned into an artful expression. At age 13, Steven began seriously writing poetry. “I usually come up with them by myself,” said Steven. “I sometimes get the titles from the dictionary. I have actually copied the dictionary, word-by-word, at least fourteen times. The dictionary has been a major influence in my collection.” Steven also said that his themes generally circle around his emotions. “If I feel it, I write it,” he said simply. This gifted student has written a total of 128 poems, all assembled in a very unique collection. The following is an excerpt from one of his favorite creations:
Solitary Place
I lay upon this dark, lonely hill as my sanctuary
Restless am I of this abandoned world around me
Of which barren soul will I carry?
Which bereavement will be more sound in me?
Welcoming, faded dew crawls without certain aim to the soles of my feet,
Calming my thoughts, turning away from a breath too wild and discrete
Approaching my contentment with an elegance so well.
Silencing every agonizing voice of hell
Restlessly do I still take closure to that objective cage
Crawling with vengeful brevity amidst a clouding legion
But, with strength, does my mind soak not in rage
Nestling within a shelter of celestially, carousing regions
When the harmony of Death would utter its tempting phrase
The disturbance of my befriending grass is what I would feel
Then would that mellifluous air bring a pleasantry upon my praise
And give this conversant horizon to my appeal
Dreadful are the neutral winds of an officious dawn
For my crave for it, upon this vale, has drowned into the omens of its land
Every cleansed leaf brushes across my brow, giving me each sorrow to pawn
Feeding me the food in the palm of Evening Star’s hand
But that protuberant bulb of heaven above
Takes praise in its own unruly love
Its warlike beams smite the souls of my wondrous kin
Exposing its high burden through withering din
But no spindle shall dismantle the embroidery of my thoughts
No insidious reason shall crush the gem of my meditating sting
These pastures seek the generous taste of what silence brought
And make a vow to its peace with a deceiving ring
Little mourn do I, though, of evening’s frock
Shimmering of early stars that form not in passive lines
But yet I wait not for the soaring conglomerates of darkness to flock
Fortified am I of the spiral winds of this glen that refines
My heart burns of exultant to the satisfied sunset
And yet I could not drear of its absence in which night would deface
For I hope not for my companions of sorrow to be upset
As I watch the drapes of transitory serenity revolve in my solitary place.
