Kelli Pomroy

Kelli Pomroy is a recent graduate of Stetson University. She received her B.A. in English and will continue her education with a M.A. in English next spring. Outside of Stetson University’s literary magazine, Touchstone, this is her first publication. Currently, she lives in Daytona Beach, Florida where she continues to write poetry under the influence of large cups of coffee.

Work by Kelli Pomroy

Kelli Pomroy

This is a Letter to Virginia Woolf

  U n b u r y t h e S e v e n t h A vase on the table of past. Six selves missing the seventh. Red Carnation. What words were left? Ones that satisfied everything but happiness, loss? Is the cowardly world conquerable together? But weren’t they always on their own? I have lived a thousand lives already. Every day I find relics of myself in the sand. The death of the self. The heroism in the unattainable.                   B y t h e E d g e o f E n d Here lies a companion for nature’s ground. The antagonist for ...

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Kelli Pomroy

This is a Letter to Virginia Woolf

  T o T h e L i g h t h o u s e Conformed to the bay. Illuminating. Inaccessible. Indefinite. Certain of a love. A painting. A destination. A home. Changing as time travels. Blues parallel. Destruction comes. Ground eats away. Constant reminder of an intertwined melody. Of delicacy. Of the mirror. Of the waves. V ‘ s D i a r y Saturday, August 12th Hovering in your mind today after you read Dickens and Austen. The Moths. The image. The struggle in your pen. Wednesday, September 25th The Waves now. You wanted to quit. I’m thankful you didn’t. It wasn’t pleasurable to write. I promise, it was pleasurable to read. Saturday, November 30th Your room at ...

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Kelli Pomroy

This is a Letter to Virginia Woolf

  I n s i d e r The sea always comes back. Is that why you love the waves? Indefinite.                                                                          “We may sink and settle on the waves.” Rhythmic pounding marked passages of time. Whose breath comes, goes unconsciously.                                                                         “Who am I? Am I all of them? Am I one and                                                                             distinct? I do not know.” Oceans commune at the shore line before break.                                                                         “And the words that trail drearily without                                                                             human meaning; I will reduce you to order.” Your outside was full of disorder, confusion. What were the little things that wept?                                                                       “Beech trees, the river bank, where the                                                                         trees meet united like lovers in the ...

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Kelli Pomroy

This is a Letter to Virginia Woolf

D e a r V – I Hysterical as I read how you loathed Freud. He claims psychoanalysis brought about your creativity and that you needed to see a therapist. I bet you were thankful for Leonard; he put Freud in his place. “If Virginia had gone to see somebody about her mental breakdowns, the creativity, the madness, it would have stopped.”Good for him. It was more Preferable to be mad and creative than to be analyzed. Who wants to remember that horrible dress your mom made you wear to St. Ives anyway? You said you “ceased to be obsessed by ...

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