In 1994, during the Rwandan genocide, I was still in school.
I wrote a story and a poem about it, and read it aloud to my class.
When I could no longer tolerate the behavior of certain girls in my dormitory,
I turned to poetry. I wrote about them, and some of them cried.
When I wrestled with adolescence, with puberty and desire,
I poured it all into poetry.
When I journeyed to a new place as an adult,
I wrote about the border crossings, the airport security checks,
and every new word I picked up in the local language.
Poetry once existed just for me
a mirror to my moods and feelings
until I realized that such rawness can’t live in isolation.
Poetry has no passport, no borders.
It refuses to conform.
It goes where it pleases,
and makes its home wherever it lands.
Bless!
Bev.
