Biography

Johanna Ely loves Benicia, and is passionate about poetry. She has lived in Benicia for 30 years, but has been writing poetry since the fourth grade. After graduating from UC Berkeley with a degree in English, she earned her teaching credential from St. Mary’s College in Moraga, and taught elementary school in Pittsburg, California for twenty-five years. Now retired, Johanna is an active member of the Benicia First Tuesday Poets group, and has been the chairperson of the Benicia Love Poetry Contest for the past two years. She has been published in several anthologies and online journals. Recently, she published a small collection of her poems titled, “Transformation”, and enjoys reading her poetry at different venues around the Bay Area.

Johanna is honored and excited to serve as Benicia’s sixth Poet Laureate. Her goal is to have poets and poetry pop up all over Benicia; at the library, in the schools, and in the art galleries, restaurants, and coffee shops around town. She believes that poetry should be made accessible to everyone!

Nina Serrano Interviews Johanna Ely

The full interview includes readings of several of her poems.

Build a Library

In celebration of the Benicia Library's Twenty-fifth Anniversary (1993-2018)

Build a library

where 7,000 books become 100,000

where children with Teddy bears

listen to stories

until they fall asleep,

and teens study late into the evening,

cell phones left on vibrate--

where neighbors meet

to hear a famous author speak,

or a musician play guitar.

Build a library

where literacy is a free gift,

where all languages are appreciated,

where your child can hear

a story in Mandarin,

and then again in English--

where people learn to read,

and take home piles of books

in bags and backpacks and boxes.

Build a library

where computers and printers

hum and thrum,

where the internet is a wide open highway,

free for all to travel--

where people can print out job applications,

or a poem,

or a chapter of their next great novel.

Build a library

where paintings hang in a gallery

and local artists are honored,

where a bronze tree

holds books and letters and numbers

in its boughs,

where over the fireplace,

the sculpted pages

of a book

seem to take flight.

Build a library

and paint it the colors of

a mesa at sunset--

give its roof a patina

of aqua sea glass.

Fill it with chairs and tables,

with lamps that shine like moons,

and a fireplace to read by

on cold winter mornings.

Build a library

where the librarians smile

and say hello,

because they know you

and your kids,

and maybe a couple of them

even remember what you looked like

back in 1993.

Build a new library for Benicia,

and so we did--

twenty five years later,

the beating heart of our community.

--Johanna Ely

Benicia's 6th Poet Laureate

June 16, 2018

Solano County Fair - 2017 First place and Best of Show ribbon winner poem

Mountain Lion

Rounding a curve

out of Angel's Camp

heading up Highway 4

in the summer twilight,

our car windows rolled down-

inhaling the scent of pine trees

still warm from the afternoon sun

slivers of moon stuck

in their boughs-

it's then we saw him,

not a deer

caught in the headlights' glare

bewildered and frozen in its sprint,

but a mountain lion.

A tawny and muscular god,

he bounded out in front of us

and across the two lane road

with the grace and ease of a dancer

leaping across a darkened stage.

Solitary and arrogant,

only after he reached the top

of the embankment in a single jump

did he turn for half a second-

his backward glance so bold and direct

as human and wild animal eyes met,

and locked briefly.

In his stare

a language understood between us

but not spoken,

before he silently turned away

and stealthily stalked the night.

Johanna Ely

Poem read at City Council on March 28th - for National Poetry Month Proclamation

When a Poem Wants to be Written

When a poem wants to be written

it usually starts out small, innocuous,

a mere pinpoint of light

teasing me awake,

a flash of promise assuring me

that even though the circuit

is not quite connected

the motor is almost whirring.

When a poem wants to be written

it always becomes demanding, annoying, inconsiderate.

It is the hungry cat meowing loudly at 4am.

It is the the angry fly buzzing and tapping incessantly

against the window screen on a summer afternoon.

It is the drunk friend who calls me

during dinner every Wednesday night for no particular reason.

When a poem wants to be written

it eventually becomes conceited, over-inflated, bloated.

It is the man at the party who talks only about himself.

It is the hot air that fills a balloon to bursting.

It grows twice its size like a sponge soaked in water, becoming heavy,

useless, saturated with too many adjectives and sopped up similes.

When a poem finally wants to become mine

it surrenders itself to me

like a piece of tender fruit,

sweet smelling, soft, almost too ripe.

Carefully, I cut away its skin,

the overused words,

the bruised metaphors,

pare it down to almost nothing.

Once again it becomes small, innocuous.

It is what feeds me, abates the gnawing hunger,

keeps me greedy for more.

--Johanna Ely

Poem read at Joel's Celebration of Life

"Hope is the thing with feathers...."

Hope is the thing with feathers

that perches in the soul

and sings the tune without the words

and never stops - at all

Emily Dickinson

If such a tiny bird,

perhaps left for dead,

or suffering from an injured wing,

its feathers matted and torn,

finds refuge in your broken heart,

then reach inside yourself

and touch this living thing called Hope,

gently bind its limp and useless wing

with Love's tattered cloth,

and press it to your shattered heart

until it heals,

until this lovely creature sings again,

then let it fly,

and nest in someone else's heart,

the stranger,

the neighbor,

the old friend,

the one who just like you,

needs to hear its song.

After the Storm

Sunlight,

wind,

children's voices

in the alley.

Everything outside is

sharp and clear again,

a new lens with which to

look through and view

the silent green mountain

as close as my hand.

All the swollen grey clouds

blown off the surface of the sky,

the wind's breath really

a giant sigh of relief

to see blue again,

the promise that nothing

lasts forever -

not the rain,

not sorrow.

Ode to the Library

Flickering sunlight…

we always sit at

the table by the window.

We try so hard to converse quietly,

my English

his Spanish

a beautiful wobbly bridge

between us.

The library is

our haven

a sanctuary

and long ago,

my first bird’s nest.

Me, the fledgling

who almost tumbled

and hit hard ground

was nurtured by you

and kept alive,

fed the delicious pages of books.

The winter I wrote lesson plans

by a warm fire in your quiet space

and found comfort there,

whispered arias of beginning,

(my teacher dreams)

settled myself in your open arms.

Such gratitude for you,

who welcomes those

who crave so many things:

knowledge

language

literacy

technology

community

and most importantly,

O keeper of these sunlit books of poetry,

a way to interpret the heart.

-- Johanna Ely

Find more of her poetry in the Catalog.