Poems by Hannah Voley
Hannah Voley: Anatomy of a Poet
Hannah Voley was born March 7, 1998, in the dreary, gray city of Anchorage, Alaska. Shortly after, she and her family lived in Scammon Bay, a little Eskimo village nestled on the shoreline of the Bering Sea. Hannah also lived in Wasilla for a short time, but when her parents had found teaching jobs in Kenny Lake, she herself had found a permanent home. Through a child’s eyes, Kenny Lake was perfect. Here were the endless, empty woods just waiting to be filled up with laughter and imagination. There, untouched by civilization, was where Hannah’s creativity began taking form.
Her love for nature and adventure showed in her nonsense drawings, endless stories, and her favorite books. Her love for reading started even before she could read. Words amazed her, the way they were placed on a page and how they could strangely transform into familiar sounds. When she entered second and third grade, she discovered an appreciation for poetry, everything about it. Whenever Hannah was bored, she wrote poetry about what crossed her mind. When she was angry at her brother, she wrote about him getting pushed off a cliff. Whatever it was she felt, there was always a poem that could be molded, no matter how ridiculous or nonsensical it seemed later on. But Hannah had learned what the meaning of poetry was early on: to express yourself, even if you eventually tear the poem up, or laugh at it later.
by Hannah Voley
A sweet smile, hidden behind a vail of darkness
A small cry, muffled by the thunder
An act of kindness, buried in a hill of shame
An unknown color, concealed by a layer of dirt
A secret, untold
A being, unheard of
A heartbeat stopping,
No one knew
Poisoned air, invisible
Love, not able
Hurt, too deep
In one little sphere that floats in a realm of black
The Message in the Fog
By Hannah Voley
The eerie, looming fog has settled in wisps of grey
The abandoned city towers around me,
Glinting silver in the rich moonlight
Silence is resting heavy upon me --
Then I hear it.
My eyes struggle to see
My hands struggle to grasp
But the owner of those distant sounds
Has hidden in the thick ruffles of mist.
Ring through the cool, empty air
Than my own heartbeat.
But in a moment
The overpowering silence has returned.
Some strange presence grips me
Like a shadow seen through a closed door.
My voice brushes the quiet feverishly as I speak:
Out of the swirling, incomprehensible fog
Emerges dark, ebony shapes.
No-they aren't from the fog
They are the fog.
Manes weaved from delicate smoke
Black eyes glinting like deadly coals.
They toss their noble heads in distress-
Indistinct chatters pained with agony
Our home! Where is it? They cry,
Voices dripping with pure pain.I open my mouth to reply,
But before I can –
they have vanished.
For the cold, hard cement beneath my feet
Has answered them for me.