EVERYDAY MAGIC: Midnight Poetry Sessions

Poetry. Whether words flow to the rhythm of flowers or fire, a few phrases unraveling the heart is nothing less than a small act of everyday magic.

I’ve always been enamoured by written word; the way verses dance from mind to pen to paper to lips to air. Rudimentary marks upon a page which, standing alone, mean nothing. Yet when composed in a particular order, have the power to quietly move both moutains and men.

Similarly, it is not the grandeous gestures, but the unassuming details which converge to create the extraordinary. This is poetry: the art of seeking the miraculous within the mundane.

We make room for that which is important to us. Life does not reserve a day and time for us to revel in the finer pleasures of living. It is up to us, amid tasks and responsibilities, to allocate the time to free our spirit to authentically live.

I put this notion into practice last night, while listening to the patter of rainfall outside my window. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, I began to write, without deadline or purpose.

I wrote solely for the uninhibited pleasure of conjuring words from mind to pen to paper to lips to air.

The result? A series of five poems vying to be written for quite some time:

A TALE OF TWO POETS: Darkness and Light

(*I also included a sample of my writing music playlist. I recommend settling down with a hot cup of tea or coffee and listening to them while reading!*)

x. Natasha Overin

I was 13 years old when an English teacher caught me writing poetry instead of taking notes during class. After confiscating my poem (entitled “The Beast”), she took me aside after class and told me it reminded her of Edgar Allen Poe. (At the time, I strongly doubted writing in the voice of a 19th century male macabre writer was a compliment.) Yet, as I grew older, I leaned into the genre and enjoy writing the occassional eerie verse or two.

Ten years later, at 23, I wrote a revived version of “The Beast”, inspired by my initial venture into horror:

The Beast in my Attic (Three Flights Up, Second Door to the Right)

I lured the Beast to the attic, and locked the door,
So the floral wallpaper peeling from decaying walls,
crimson-stained sofa and mirror masked by sterile white bedsheets,
suffocating dust settling over claw marks in the creaking floorboards
the stench of ammonia and sweat
the gentle chime of the music box, playing Clair de Lune,
might be exorcised from the confines of my memory.

I kept a pristine home,
with a Beast in the attic,
Three flights up, second door to the right,
And although I barricaded the entrance,
Secured the bolts and buried the key,
I could still hear him knocking at night.

So I sheathed every portrait in the hallways,
To avoid their knowing stares,
Did away with every knife in the kitchen
For fear the Beast might find me there.

I confiscated every last music box,
Yet the chiming did not relent,
Clair de Lune, playing in my bedroom, in the study,
Emiating from the cross nailed to my wall,
Urging me to repent.

Until one cold and barren winter’s eve,
I lit a candle and gathered my axe,
Ready to slaughter the Beast in my attic,
Determined to take my home back.
Quivering hands swinging open the attic door,
The Beast was not in sight.
Just the gentle creaking of an open window,
And the chill of a cold winter’s night.

Yet if the beast had managed to flee,
Why were goosebumps prickling upon my spine,
Why was Claire de Lune still playing incessantly,
Why couldn’t my hacking axe silence the music box’s chime?

A sudden gust of wind extinguished my candle,
a darkness setting over the room,
So the only shadows seen were cast
by the glow of a ghostly white moon.

It was then the Beast revealed itself,
In a tangle of claws and teeth and hair,
A bloodcurdling scream emanating from its chapped lips
Broken vessels in its red eyes narrowed to an animus glare.
The Beast too, held an axe in its claws,
Its malicious intentions becoming clear,
Yet as my arms swung the ax down,
to finally slaughter the Beast,
My blade gave way
To the shattering of a mirror.

x. Natasha Overin

“Maybe some women aren’t meant to be tamed. Maybe they just need to run free until they find someone just as wild to run with them.” – Candace Bushnell

The Wolf

Sometimes I am more wolf,
than woman.
Crying out to a loveless moon.
And as I pray to the impenetrable night sky
Embers fading within my aching chest
The mountains and valleys
sympathize and return my echos

On nights such as these,
I gaze into the placid lake
at a reflection of two wild and hungry eyes
Awash the hues of pine needles and heavy skies
of emerald greens and glacial grays
The eye of the storm in an iris

And I still do not know,
if the spirit behind the eyes
watching in the reflection
is more wolf or woman,
And I still do not know,
which of us is crying out
to a loveless moon.

x. Natasha Overin

When nothing was spared but her atmosphere and gravity, naturally, it was a disaster.

The Way He Arrived (and Departed)

the way he arrived was a typhoon,
his affection welcome after a drought,
until the rain became so relentless
one might drown in the flood

the way he fought
was an earthquake,
suddenly, without warning
shaking me to my very core
tearing at my faults

the way he departed,
was a hurricane,
quickly, with precision and practice
ravaging everything we had built
not a stone left unturned

the way I carried on,
was a solar eclipse,
sweeping all into a muted gray hue
a faint chill to the air
as passerby, stared unblinkingly
at the phenomenon
while I turned the other cheek,
now all the wiser
to the consequences of loving a disaster.

x. Natasha Overin


When love comes from a selfless place, when loving acts are committed without expectation of reciprocation or recognition, then it does not matter how much love you give away. There will always be enough, and you will always be nourished by it.

A Revival

I cannot silence,
the bell that’s been chimed
I cannot recollect,
the tears that have been cried.

The burden freed from your arms,
though your shoulders still stoop
A tiger released to the wild,
raised in captivity,
you were too fearful to move.

Clip a dove’s wings for long enough,
and it forgets how to fly
So you trudge through the
muddied earth,
While you were born to kiss the skies.

I cannot silence,
the bell that’s been chimed
I cannot recollect,
the tears that have been cried.

But I can help you recognize in yourself,
all the beauty I see in you,
Showing you the love
you deserved all along
Is the least I can do.

x. Natasha Overin


Finished reading a particularly good book last night (“A Thousand Splendid Suns” by Khaled Hosseini, author of “The Kite Runner”). The book was a beautifully written work of literature, and parts of it, admittedly, moved me to tears. It’s ending sparked me to write this piece, reflecting upon the characters’ stories, as well as my own.

Page 418

This evening, I finished reading a novel,
All 418 pages of text,
And as I read page 389,
an especially devastating climax to
an otherwise tragic storyline,
I began to weep
for the protagonist
for the senselessness of her suffering.

This book, and its characters
Occupied my home and my thoughts
and I sipped tea at
the kitchen table and listened to their tales
and welcomed them into my bed
and when my eyes grew heavy,
I traced their journey by candlelight.

This evening, as I read page 418,
and put the book to rest,
I was filled with an achingly familiar void,
No stranger to this emptiness in my chest.
When the characters in my own life story,
have reached untimely conclusions,
When I was not yet ready to begin another book,
hopeful fate would write a sequel,
or, perhaps grant me paper and a pen-

So I might write a happier ending.

x. Natasha Overin


Thanks for reading!

xx. Natasha Overin




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