Site + Book Update

Site Update

After hosting the Introspective Collective poetry blog for almost six years, I’ve decided to sunset this space to focus my efforts on writing my next book, and sharing more intentionally to my Instagram and Facebook pages.

I’ve learned so much through this space–it’s been an incredible tool; I’ve found my voice, my writing style, healing, my purpose. I learned how to share freely and vulnerably with strangers and with friends. As I’ve grown, I found that I have the most impact on the social platforms, with the ability to reach more readers and hurting hearts.

This refocus in my efforts (though I’ll miss this beautiful space), will help me intentionally serve you better, sharing less duplicative content, and more consistently. The site will be live until late November, with all the archives live until then.

If you want to continue to follow my work, I’ve added my account links below:

• Instagram

• Facebook

Book update

Another bit of exciting news is that I’ve re-released my poetry collection, Morning Air, Morning Light through the independent publisher, Secret Midnight Press. This new edition is filled with my illustrations (60+ fo them !!), as well as a new cover, but holds the same vulnerable and honest poetry.

You can order a signed version of the book directly from the publisher here, or through Bookshop!

Thank you to you all who have been here to support this space, I’m filled with gratitude to have such amazing readers, supporters, family, and friends. The future is so bright!

Will it? / It will

‘It will’ is an ekphrastic poem; ekphrastic poetry is poetry written based off a work of art. This piece was inspired based off the painting ‘Will it?’ by artist, Izaiah Miller. I love art because it can be interpreted differently by each viewer, just as poetry transforms and morphs based on the reader.

While it’s been a minute since work has been published on this site, I’m thrilled to be sharing this poem along with Izaiah’s complex and rich painting. The full painting is the first image below, with some of my favorite detail shots following the poem.

---

“Will It?”, painting by Izaiah Miller.

It will

by Regan Smith

• • •

It will get better, 
these sound waves
bounce off my skull, 
never seeming to sink in, 
no matter how many times 
it’s been said to me. 

It will get better, 
Will it?

I feel torn in so
many directions;
nothing feels safe, 
and confusion seems 
to be the only constant. 

Every thought is an enigma, 
burdening, swarming, pulling; 
I don’t know which way to turn. 

Any attempt I make to
determine a direction 
towards growth, towards life, 
is thwarted; I’m on a leash
that extends only as far as my
thoughts allow me to be. 

But I have one foundational truth 
that flickers into my line of sight
from time to time–that the dark will always
try to choke out the light; for it knows that
once light enters in, the space transforms. 

So I lean into this direction–
taking a chance on the belief
that things will get better. 

It will get better, 
it will get better, 
it will get better. 

But I’m immediately met with: 

Will it?
Will it?
Will it?

Things start to become more
tumultuous, toxic thoughts cycle
faster, quicker, swelling and swarming
to a claustrophobic state. 

I see the pattern–
dark thoughts seeing a sliver of light, 
threatening their home, so they try 
and fight back with more chaos. 

But I take the weapon of intention, 
and kill these thoughts that made
up my past self–revolting against them, 
telling them that they have no home here. 

The chaos starts to settle, 
as the light begins to leak in, 
and any residual darkness dissipates. 

And standing in the rubble 
of my past mindsets, I look up, 
realizing I’ve lost everything that 
use to occupy my mind; and with a
clean canvas, I’m met with all that matters: 

An overwhelming peace, 
a moment of stillness, 

and power over my thoughts.

Prolonged Solitude

Jumping straight into the poetry, followed by a personal note.

---

Prolonged Solitude

by Regan Smith

• • •

Prolonged Solitude is the only one
who has created such a space to where
my claustrophobic subconscious can 
finally take a deep breath, reach out and 
pen itself to paper. 

Prolonged Solitude has given me 
revelations and understandings of myself 
in ways I’ve never known before; 
she’s honest and kind and has 
kept me accountable. 

Her silent words have shown me 
myself in raw and uncomfortable ways; 
where I realize that I’ve been storing
shattered glass in my side–only 
now my eyes aren’t too busy to 
see it, my hands aren’t too busy to help, 
and where I can alleviate and heal. 

I’ve mistaken her before, long ago
when we weren’t well acquainted. 
I mistook her as an enemy–
and thought I responded with 
purposeful neglect, but when I numbed
her out, it was because I was screaming, 
trying to fill the void which would 
only leave me with a sore throat and 
a messy mind. I inaccurately 
attributed that character to her. 

For while she’s a quiet friend–
one who says few words–
those few words are pure wisdom, 
always bringing me back to myself, 
to still my self, to slow my thoughts; 
and for that, I thank you, 
Prolonged Solitude. 

---

While I still work during the week remotely and spend a lot of time with Ricky, this pandemic has brought on a great deal of solitude, as I’m sure many others are experiencing. As an introvert, I adore being alone–I truly get so much energy out of it. But there’s a point to where I exceed my introversion tanks and start retreating inward. I go deep, deep into my thoughts and truly get lost. I start to lose touch with reality for I’ve ventured so deeply into this secret land that only I can see. I begin to take every thought with a thousand tons of gravity, chasing it back to origin, and can’t find my way back. It’s such an interesting concept to share but truly I become so distracted with my thoughts that I have a difficult time focusing on really anything. I start feeling anxious since I don’t feel grounded.

To counteract, I’ve been spending more time in meditation and prayer, writing and setting myself a structured schedule to continue to write and create. This has been a true blessing these past few weeks. 

During these efforts, I partook in a guided writing exercise to help bring forth my subconscious to paper. To simply see it and allow more clarity in my mind. The activity was to write a letter to someone. I chose to write a letter to my present-day self. To be even more vulnerable, I found that through this exercise, I have been harboring hate subconsciously against myself. The letter was so incredibly encouraging and uplifting–speaking against the inadequacy that I had felt. 

I didn’t realize until after the ink dried that I had been in an ongoing struggle with feeling inadequate, a slave to growth, an imposter to all. 

While I can’t control this terrible circumstance that we’re all in, I’m so incredibly thankful for this season of solitude. I’m not sure how much longer I would have gone before I recognized the hurt that I was holding. I don’t have many answers to this, but I know what the truth says about me. 

I know that I am empowered, and out of the abundance of that is my growth. 
I know that I am strong, and out of the abundance of that is the encouragement I give. 
I know that I am fully loved, and out of the abundance of that I’m able to love others. 
I know that I am on the right track, for when I’m not, I’m always guided back.

---

Note (Poem)

Today’s poem is written by our guest author, Tyler. This poem’s imagery completely envelops me, a mental vacation. I hope you can read this poem while sipping in some of the evening’s sunbeams.

---

Note

by Tyler Mortensen-Hayes

• • •

—Have you noticed, friends, how amazing it is
that a sunflower contains itself inside
itself, like somebody you love but could never touch;
how it allows itself, come fall, to turn brown
& droop into nothing, though not before spitting
out the miraculous little clusters of sunlight
that have hardened into its seeds, spreading
over the damp garden where congregations of birds
& squirrels & my own two hands gobble them up,
filling with the nourishment of something that,
just weeks ago, did not even exist; & sometime later
all of those seeds—forgive me for mentioning it—
spill out & rejoin everything that remains uneaten
& buried, under leaves or wet earth, waiting the whole long
hazy winter until, clever things, they grow into sunflowers,
& how impossible to witness this again & again,
year after year, & to always take part, always eating
& growing from what rises so softly, so wordlessly,
from the earth, how lucky we are, dearest friends, to be here.

---

Tyler is a poet, located in Salt Lake City, a bustling place known for its erratic climate and proximity to vast wildernesses. He once had a friend who told him, “You poets take the weather so personally!” in which Tyler thought–”Why yes, don’t you?”

Empty Spaces

In this guest post, Edward brings us a short prose piece relating to the current social climate. Take a read, take care, and know that we’ll be together again soon. Thank you, Edward, for sharing these beautiful words.

---

Empty Spaces

by Edward Ahern

• • •

We define ourselves by the spaces we fill, by our closeness, one to another, to another. The surging floods of faces and bodies reassure us that we’re a snugly fitting part of a larger whole. When our outsides are vacated and we’re boxed away or hidden behind masks, we can’t help but worry.

We’re pack animals with strong loves for group and territory. When both are withheld, we suffer from social vertigo. And worry, not just about today, but tomorrow as well. How will friendship and work companionship be deformed, or worse go missing? Can we return to touching shoulders with strangers in stadiums? Can we still find someone special when the social places, shuttered now, may be changed to dancing six feet apart?

The empty parking lots we drive by on our way to buy food and medicine mean gapingly empty parts of our lives. Can we begin to recover that?

We shouldn’t have to measure closeness with caution, but will for some time to come. And then eventually, as we create tolerance of a new disease, we’ll resume old ways. And the empty spaces will be filled by our needed sense of place, of closeness, one to another, to another.

---

Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over two hundred fifty stories and poems published so far, and six books. Ed works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories, where he sits on the review board and manages a posse of six review editors.

Strong Woman

This is the last poem of the Sister Series, the series of celebrating individual women and sharing their beauty through poetry. After I started writing poems, I felt a draw to write a collective poem for the women in my life. This poem is Strong Woman–for even though I may not know you, this poem was also written about you.

I drew some women that are especially prominent in this season of my life, while there are also many others not pictured. I hope that you enjoyed this series, and felt closer to the women that are within your life. Send them a note, a string of text, or a physical embrace.

---

Strong Woman

by Regan Smith

• • •

I admire how she boldly 
explores the mysteries, 
extending herself into the unknown 
taking on an endeavor to learn, 
forever a student. 

I see how she takes the circumstances 
of stone and spins them to gold; 
this treasure of wisdom and truth
is not held with clenched hands–oh 
how she shares her wealth of wisdom with joy. 
I know, because I’ve been on the receiving 
end of her great generosity. 

With these same unclenched hands, 
she pulls handfuls of hope directly from the heavens–
her intentionality surpassing this realm.

Not a day goes by where her 
presence is not felt; for her impact is
breathed in and out, and recycled again– 
giving strength and life to brittle lungs; 
caring for even the trees, she’s always
morphing and shaping to meet the needs of 
of others, of herself. 

She is the night bird, singing praises 
of the day’s promise, even when it’s still dark, 
sharing words of joy through her tongue, her pen, her song. 

For she knows, that to be meek and gentle 
is to be strong and courageous.

---