I know what you’re thinking—
She named a poetry club after herself?
I’d question that, too.
But no.
The black rose is not about me.
It’s about mystery.
It’s about love.
It’s about death.
And it’s about beginnings—
the kind that bloom after everything else has fallen away.
(It just so happens that my last name is also Rose.)
A coincidence? Maybe.
But a fitting one.
Because life itself is a mystery—
one we try to unravel through language,
through every word born from what we’ve lived and lost.
Life is about love—
for ourselves,
for others,
for the parts of us still healing
and the parts that never forgot how to hope.
It’s where kindness meets courage.
Where understanding walks hand in hand with truth.
Where respect is the foundation—
not just for others,
but for ourselves.
Life is also about death—
not just the ending,
but the letting go.
The releasing of what no longer serves us.
The shedding of old skins, old stories, old selves.
The quiet bravery it takes
to face the fear of becoming someone new.
As I once wrote:
“You can’t step into a new beginning
without letting go of who you once were.”
And that—
that is where art is born.
Because I don’t believe poetry is just stanzas and structure.
I believe words—whether poetry, prose, memoir, or story—
are mirrors.
They’re offerings.
They are the raw material of soulwork.
When we write them down,
they become more than thought.
They become art.
And when we share them—
they become connection.
So I’m building a space.
A society.
Not just for poets,
but for all writers
who dare to speak their truths aloud.
A place to weave lines together,
not just to be heard—
but to be seen.
To build something greater than ourselves.
Because how beautiful are our thoughts?
How sacred,
our imaginations?
How powerful,
this endless search for meaning?
I have a dream—
to build a society where
words aren’t just windows to the soul,
but the creation of unsung art.
Interested in joining? Click Here
J.N. Rose 