Below is some of my own poetry. All work is copyrighted and noted as such.
Check out the "memorial" website for the poetry group I was once a part of here in Huntsville. Unfortunately, the Out Loud Poets dissolved due to life just getting too busy for all of us. Some of my poetry is buried deep on the site.
Also visit the Limestone Dust Poetry Festival. I participated in that last year. There's a photo of me reading my poem out there! Check out some of my favorites poets online: Louise Gluck, Nikki Giovanni, Rita Dove, Billy Collins and Deborah Garrison.
Check out the "memorial" website for the poetry group I was once a part of here in Huntsville. Unfortunately, the Out Loud Poets dissolved due to life just getting too busy for all of us. Some of my poetry is buried deep on the site.
Also visit the Limestone Dust Poetry Festival. I participated in that last year. There's a photo of me reading my poem out there! Check out some of my favorites poets online: Louise Gluck, Nikki Giovanni, Rita Dove, Billy Collins and Deborah Garrison.
Eclipsed
Published in the 2005 Limestone Dust Poetry Festival Anthology: Poetry Finalist
Another major astronomical event
And the moon looks like it was dipped in chocolate
I wanted to call and tell you about this
Share this with you, but
I was afraid you wouldn't answer
Wouldn't want to answer
We've always circled each other
Like the ellipses formed
by the sun, the moon, the earth
Coming in close proximity for a time
Playing in shadows
This will be the last
At least for a while
And maybe the same will be true for us
And like the full lunar eclipse of its day
The situations blocking the light
Will pass quickly
And we'll see what truly lies
On the surface
Of us
© Oct. 2004 Angela N. Wright | top of page
My Grandma
(Can you believe she is over 70 in this photo???)
Published in the 2005 Limestone Dust Poetry Festival Anthology: Poetry Finalist
Another major astronomical event
And the moon looks like it was dipped in chocolate
I wanted to call and tell you about this
Share this with you, but
I was afraid you wouldn't answer
Wouldn't want to answer
We've always circled each other
Like the ellipses formed
by the sun, the moon, the earth
Coming in close proximity for a time
Playing in shadows
This will be the last
At least for a while
And maybe the same will be true for us
And like the full lunar eclipse of its day
The situations blocking the light
Will pass quickly
And we'll see what truly lies
On the surface
Of us
© Oct. 2004 Angela N. Wright | top of page
My Grandma
(Can you believe she is over 70 in this photo???)
Grandma's Gift | audio
file
Published in the 2003 Limestone Dust Poetry Festival Anthology: Poetry Finalist
The need to reconstruct a spirit
Like regenerating cells and tissue
Doesn't require Resurrection
But the skilled labor
Of grandma's arms and hands
That also give rise to peonies,
Begonias, roses and however
Conveniently, me
Here in the simplest of offices
An island of repair
In between
The kitchen and den
Two barstools
I sit with my head
In my right hand
Grandma gently smiles
While all the contents
Of my troubles
Spill out across
The counter top
She quietly
Collects them
Rolls them up in
Her hands
Reflecting shadows
Of adversity
Survived and conquered
From this barstool
Comfort sought in Victory, acceptance
Simultaneously evoked
By my fidgeting hands
Grasping for any object
Within reach
And I'm reminded
Nothing is too far
At the sink, grandma says
"You're a strong woman"
Washes her hands
And takes another sip of tea
© Dec. 2002 Angela N. Wright | top of page
My Grandma
(Can you believe she is over 70 in this photo???)
Published in the 2003 Limestone Dust Poetry Festival Anthology: Poetry Finalist
The need to reconstruct a spirit
Like regenerating cells and tissue
Doesn't require Resurrection
But the skilled labor
Of grandma's arms and hands
That also give rise to peonies,
Begonias, roses and however
Conveniently, me
Here in the simplest of offices
An island of repair
In between
The kitchen and den
Two barstools
I sit with my head
In my right hand
Grandma gently smiles
While all the contents
Of my troubles
Spill out across
The counter top
She quietly
Collects them
Rolls them up in
Her hands
Reflecting shadows
Of adversity
Survived and conquered
From this barstool
Comfort sought in Victory, acceptance
Simultaneously evoked
By my fidgeting hands
Grasping for any object
Within reach
And I'm reminded
Nothing is too far
At the sink, grandma says
"You're a strong woman"
Washes her hands
And takes another sip of tea
© Dec. 2002 Angela N. Wright | top of page
My Grandma
(Can you believe she is over 70 in this photo???)
Venus at Night | audio
file
We have everything
And yet we have almost nothing
A mere five days spent
Wasted over wine, a few cigarettes
You'd shake your head in disbelief
Over what you considered to be
A major astronomical event
Venus too close to the moon
The tide ebbing with an
Undercurrent of unfulfilled passion
The sun rose too quickly
I wished I had paid more attention
I would have stayed
When you reached to turn out the light
Darkness
A temporary ending to what the mind
Can perceive as permanence
Without an exact timetable
Like a day
© Dec. 2003 Angela N. Wright | top of page
We have everything
And yet we have almost nothing
A mere five days spent
Wasted over wine, a few cigarettes
You'd shake your head in disbelief
Over what you considered to be
A major astronomical event
Venus too close to the moon
The tide ebbing with an
Undercurrent of unfulfilled passion
The sun rose too quickly
I wished I had paid more attention
I would have stayed
When you reached to turn out the light
Darkness
A temporary ending to what the mind
Can perceive as permanence
Without an exact timetable
Like a day
© Dec. 2003 Angela N. Wright | top of page
An Aging Dancer's Musings
| audio file
(Featured in The American Muse magazine Fall 2001 issue)
As I extended my leg
Behind me
In attitude croissé
Still pushing for that soaring line
Where my foot rises
Above my bent knee
So coveted by those
In the Russian ballet schools
I wondered if Dali
Ever pushed to eek
Out the brush strokes
As he got older
Did he find it harder to
Grasp the paintbrush
That no matter how much he painted
That he would never
Stroke as technically perfect
As he did when he was young
No, I don't think that he did
He will not know what it's like
To feel in every cell
The memory of what
Each shape, each line
Should look like
Knowing that you
Created those things once
Your body still alive
Holding within it the
Unseen emotions
Your body can no longer paint
And yet we continue
To try
As if our body were as instrumental as a brush
That perhaps in one fail swoop
Of the foot
Extended and arched could
Resurrect the prima asolueta
As revenant
Yet it's not our choice
To drop our brush
Our paints dry up
With time and the bristles
Grow brittle and break
From years of paint build up
Never thoroughly rinsed away
No, dare I say, Dali
Never knew this frustration
Of watching your paints dry
And not being able to buy more
But to only run to the need
Of others with fresh tubes
Of brightly colored paints
Surrogate artists
Who would only come close
To recreating your vision
Because they aren't you
Never have been you
And yet their foot soars high
Above their bent knee
Some even above their head
While they hold for eight more counts
The picture is locked
Painted on the canvas of their cells
And after the count of eight
Begins to dry
Soon to wither and decay
The muscles surrounding it
That in order for the picture to live
It drains the very life
From the tissues that bore it
©June 2001 Angela N. Wright | top of page
(Featured in The American Muse magazine Fall 2001 issue)
As I extended my leg
Behind me
In attitude croissé
Still pushing for that soaring line
Where my foot rises
Above my bent knee
So coveted by those
In the Russian ballet schools
I wondered if Dali
Ever pushed to eek
Out the brush strokes
As he got older
Did he find it harder to
Grasp the paintbrush
That no matter how much he painted
That he would never
Stroke as technically perfect
As he did when he was young
No, I don't think that he did
He will not know what it's like
To feel in every cell
The memory of what
Each shape, each line
Should look like
Knowing that you
Created those things once
Your body still alive
Holding within it the
Unseen emotions
Your body can no longer paint
And yet we continue
To try
As if our body were as instrumental as a brush
That perhaps in one fail swoop
Of the foot
Extended and arched could
Resurrect the prima asolueta
As revenant
Yet it's not our choice
To drop our brush
Our paints dry up
With time and the bristles
Grow brittle and break
From years of paint build up
Never thoroughly rinsed away
No, dare I say, Dali
Never knew this frustration
Of watching your paints dry
And not being able to buy more
But to only run to the need
Of others with fresh tubes
Of brightly colored paints
Surrogate artists
Who would only come close
To recreating your vision
Because they aren't you
Never have been you
And yet their foot soars high
Above their bent knee
Some even above their head
While they hold for eight more counts
The picture is locked
Painted on the canvas of their cells
And after the count of eight
Begins to dry
Soon to wither and decay
The muscles surrounding it
That in order for the picture to live
It drains the very life
From the tissues that bore it
©June 2001 Angela N. Wright | top of page
A Message to Daniel
| audio file
A new night of discovery
And I felt as if I had found
A long lost friend
And we talked of metaphysics
And the Vaganova syllabus - our preference
For the Russian style of ballet
We picked up where we left off,
Didn't we?
Wherever that was, an eternity ago
An eternity from now
You said I was your revenant
And I didn't understand
Until now, what that meant
And we talked of Stephen Laberge
His ideas about lucid dreaming
"Am I dreaming?"
Was I dreaming when I met you?
I felt as if time
Had collapsed on itself
With me at the center
I was relieved to have found you, again
But I hadn't met you,
Yet…
Then came the phone calls
I had heard your voice before
It sounded so familiar
You consoled me
Like you knew the
Prevailing themes
Of my life's lessons here
Fear of love, trust
I loved you though,
The way your fingers
Stroked the keys
The music soft
With my ear pressed
Hard against the receiver
A concerto only for me
Mixed with sounds coming
Just off the street where I grew up
Muffled by the tree outside my
Open window
That I sat near in the dark
The thread of our light
Was more visible there
As it delicately dangled
Life to life
Then you would say… "Ask yourself, `Am I dreaming?'"
We often talked of meeting face to face
But the plans crumbled
It seems, under the intensity of our attraction
You said you knew
One day we would be together
How could you let that be the last thing
You said to me?
Did you know I often drove to Bowling Green?
The birthplace of Edgar Cayce
I knew you had read his books
I often wondered
Should I just keep driving
Follow the signs straight to Lexington
Thirty minutes outside of Nashville,
85 miles per hour
Then "Welcome to Kentucky"
and I always asked myself
Daniel, am I dreaming?
I somehow felt closer to you
While I hiked the trails
Of Mammoth Cave
But I couldn't walk far enough
I was trapped living this life
Claiming it as reality
I sometimes wonder if I am still dreaming…
Would time collapse again
And we fold inward
Only to gently expand
Creating a new reality?
I haven't heard from you
I thought for sure I would have by now
I'm left with the letters
The black and white photo
The familiar phrases
And Elton John…
With me, the Tiny Dancer
And you…I miss you so much
©June 2001 Angela N. Wright | top of page
A new night of discovery
And I felt as if I had found
A long lost friend
And we talked of metaphysics
And the Vaganova syllabus - our preference
For the Russian style of ballet
We picked up where we left off,
Didn't we?
Wherever that was, an eternity ago
An eternity from now
You said I was your revenant
And I didn't understand
Until now, what that meant
And we talked of Stephen Laberge
His ideas about lucid dreaming
"Am I dreaming?"
Was I dreaming when I met you?
I felt as if time
Had collapsed on itself
With me at the center
I was relieved to have found you, again
But I hadn't met you,
Yet…
Then came the phone calls
I had heard your voice before
It sounded so familiar
You consoled me
Like you knew the
Prevailing themes
Of my life's lessons here
Fear of love, trust
I loved you though,
The way your fingers
Stroked the keys
The music soft
With my ear pressed
Hard against the receiver
A concerto only for me
Mixed with sounds coming
Just off the street where I grew up
Muffled by the tree outside my
Open window
That I sat near in the dark
The thread of our light
Was more visible there
As it delicately dangled
Life to life
Then you would say… "Ask yourself, `Am I dreaming?'"
We often talked of meeting face to face
But the plans crumbled
It seems, under the intensity of our attraction
You said you knew
One day we would be together
How could you let that be the last thing
You said to me?
Did you know I often drove to Bowling Green?
The birthplace of Edgar Cayce
I knew you had read his books
I often wondered
Should I just keep driving
Follow the signs straight to Lexington
Thirty minutes outside of Nashville,
85 miles per hour
Then "Welcome to Kentucky"
and I always asked myself
Daniel, am I dreaming?
I somehow felt closer to you
While I hiked the trails
Of Mammoth Cave
But I couldn't walk far enough
I was trapped living this life
Claiming it as reality
I sometimes wonder if I am still dreaming…
Would time collapse again
And we fold inward
Only to gently expand
Creating a new reality?
I haven't heard from you
I thought for sure I would have by now
I'm left with the letters
The black and white photo
The familiar phrases
And Elton John…
With me, the Tiny Dancer
And you…I miss you so much
©June 2001 Angela N. Wright | top of page
Still
I still think of you
And I wondered years ago
If this is where
I would still be
You, always eluding me
A haunting presence of
A life superimposed
Over my own
I carry the weight of
Knowing the truth
And once thought
That death would be
The end of this
Still, science ponders
The question of quantum
Existence that we’re
All possibly holographic
Representations
Figments of our spirit’s
Imagination perhaps
Constantly moving toward
Entropy, fighting chaos
When we turn our backs,
Does the chair fade
Into oblivion?
While the quarks fly
To the farthest edges
Of a room
I still wonder, if
Maybe I should rethink
Beliefs in
Quantum mechanics
The possibility of you
Did not collapse and
Fade, but shifts
From particle to waves
And back to droplets
On my hand
Outside my open car window
Do I think you’re
Coming back to
Reinvent yourself
For the sake
Of a destiny
You stole from me,
That with free will
You chose to destroy
And the living
Will not rest in peace
But fight
The disintegration
Of wisp-like
Bodies of particles
Each wanting to fly
To the far corners
Now that your back
Is turned
© July 2003 Angela N. Wright | top of page
I still think of you
And I wondered years ago
If this is where
I would still be
You, always eluding me
A haunting presence of
A life superimposed
Over my own
I carry the weight of
Knowing the truth
And once thought
That death would be
The end of this
Still, science ponders
The question of quantum
Existence that we’re
All possibly holographic
Representations
Figments of our spirit’s
Imagination perhaps
Constantly moving toward
Entropy, fighting chaos
When we turn our backs,
Does the chair fade
Into oblivion?
While the quarks fly
To the farthest edges
Of a room
I still wonder, if
Maybe I should rethink
Beliefs in
Quantum mechanics
The possibility of you
Did not collapse and
Fade, but shifts
From particle to waves
And back to droplets
On my hand
Outside my open car window
Do I think you’re
Coming back to
Reinvent yourself
For the sake
Of a destiny
You stole from me,
That with free will
You chose to destroy
And the living
Will not rest in peace
But fight
The disintegration
Of wisp-like
Bodies of particles
Each wanting to fly
To the far corners
Now that your back
Is turned
© July 2003 Angela N. Wright | top of page
The Blank Page
What now I thought?
Peace, silence?
At what cost have these become my reward?
I can’t say my struggle
Has been fruitless
I indeed remember asking for this
The age old adage keeps replaying
“Be careful…”
“Be careful…”
Specifics are the first to go
When in full-blown survival mode
Food, shelter, peace…
My world is peaceful, quiet
You aren’t
In it
I thought I knew your name
I thought I had seen it once in my book
But the pages, crisp clean
Void, like stillness
© Feb. 2004 Angela N. Wright | top of page
What now I thought?
Peace, silence?
At what cost have these become my reward?
I can’t say my struggle
Has been fruitless
I indeed remember asking for this
The age old adage keeps replaying
“Be careful…”
“Be careful…”
Specifics are the first to go
When in full-blown survival mode
Food, shelter, peace…
My world is peaceful, quiet
You aren’t
In it
I thought I knew your name
I thought I had seen it once in my book
But the pages, crisp clean
Void, like stillness
© Feb. 2004 Angela N. Wright | top of page