JOHANNA ELY, POET LAUREATE, 2016-2018
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.