a six-minute poem

Sundown, Martina Stipan

I’m in Antigua, Guatemala with 20 brilliant creatives. Sara graciously hosted a poetry workshop where she gave us six minutes to write, while inserting a new word every 15 seconds to use in our poems.

At first, I felt mad uncomfortable. I’m a writer, but I’ve never considered myself a poet. The only times I’ve felt called to write poetry have been when I’ve been so emotionally fucked up that poetry felt like the only way to get it all out of me.

But there’s something about writing with no time to second-guess yourself. What emerges is pure instinct — authentic by default. Before I know it, I’m in a flow. And I’m just letting out the words that were already in my heart.

Here’s the poem, with the prompted words bolded:

Sitting with the discomfort of forcing myself to produce something
Inner tension, fragile like glass
My worth tied to production
Foundation of a shaky castle
Words struggling to escape my lips
Temperature rising, pressure from no one but myself

But as always, I return to worship at the shrine of love
I wear my scars with honor
I hold my frame
Like mesh armor — flexible, yet sturdy
A bright sheen from this flame in my soul
Light refracting through me like a marble

Life feels best when I’m cracked open
When I feel broken, and whole,
And powerful, and helpless all at the same time
Like a mighty lion, and a wounded fawn

I am no oracle, but I know there is love in my future
Because it’s already all around me, and I’m tired of running from it

I’m ready to pierce this shell I’ve grown
To let my truth ring out of me
To marvel at every bead of dew on the waving grass field
To boom like thunder
Uncorked, unmasked, uninhibited
To lend my ears to the universe
To let time expand and flow around us
Until we’ve unfolded into who we were always meant to be