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.