Poet Laureate of Ogden

Some poems by Angelika Brewer: 

UNTAMED

I am a child of a “rough and tumble” city,

born of railroad tracks, newspaper clippings

and bootlegged beer bottles too sentimental to toss.

Distant suburbs speak ghost stories about our urban

sidewalks and the way they are too full at the wrong hours.

They make warning of Electric Alley and the rebel voices

you would hear in the basement if ever it were quiet enough.

Changing the world has always been loud.

The face of a city is never as interesting as its heart,

but you can only feel it beating if you’re willing to get close.

If you peek around the corner of infamy,

you will find the set of your favorite movie.

If you walk inside the abandoned building,

you will find the workforce that runs a country.

If you duck under the viaduct,

you will find the junction of two halves once divided.

If you hike beyond the sanitarium,

you will find the canyon’s mouth and her Aspen teeth,

all bright white for the winter and paint stained in the fall.

If you brave the epicenter of risk-taking,

you will find the beauty in growing up untamed,

in a mountain’s palm–in the traveler’s muse.

The distant suburbs will warn you

of what can happen in a rough and tumble town–

how you will find the song

you’ve waited your whole life to hear

from a street performer on a historic road,

or how you will find yourself

inspired by the art plastered to the brick

of the restaurant with the best breakfast food

you’ve ever tasted,

You will find creations,

makeshift,

by our resident’s tough hands

and natural,

by Mother Earth’s soft grace.

            __________

Writing a Villanelle at the Vigil

It was only a dream which caused quite the fright,

jackhammer chest and rain on my forehead,

but when I woke up, I had been up all night.

I sat in my bed and flipped on the light,

swore I heard your last breath blare.

It was only a dream which caused quite the fright.

A morning blaming eye-bags on jet lag from a flight,

laid my head to get some rest,

but when I woke up, I had been up all night.

Spent the afternoon trying my hardest to write

the eulogy, the obituary–the reminder:

“It was only a dream which caused quite the fright.”

I swore I would find you before next daylight,

tried to meet you in my head asleep,

but when I woke up, I had been up all night.

They told me you gasped and your soul took flight,

I shout, as if loudness could make it more true,

“It was only a dream which caused quite the fright.”

But, when I woke up, I had been up all night.

               ____________

Yes,

I have

paddled myself back to safety,

have nurtured my own aching.

have bandaged my own wounds.

I have

fought a brutal fight for this body

to love every cranny of itself,

have taught it to breathe,

even when it didn’t want to.

I have

trained my tongue to flick

the word capable all around

the inside of my mouth

and my teeth to hold it in

so it doesn’t get lost in the gasp

of all of this being awake

and staying alive.

But,

you, with

the boat in the first place,

with the soup and the first-aid kit.

You, with

the sword and the chalkboard

and the dictionary.

You are

also to blame

for this blooming.

          __________

if we stopped writing love poems, they would still exist

roses are red

roses are also yellow

i like those ones better

and you remember

the way a bird waits

until it is warm again

to make new birds

so its mate isn’t migrating,

heavy or without her eggs,

or a nurse holds hands

with a life ending alone

and cries in the break room

where they leave all of the extra

for the next

rain or snow

which will carve a new trail

to the confluence of old storms

the same way you do for me.

what is a lake if not a church

full of raindrops?

a cloud’s tears

to bathe in?

baptize the ground

with the sky,

let a teenager jump

into a holy place

with a congregation

of bad-influence friends

and they will smile for hours

if you come home with yellow roses

because you remembered

how a baby will smell

for their mother

before they can see well

and a mother will feel

for her baby

because she can’t sleep well

without knowing

you are breathing

you remember

and you can feel

her cells in your body

dancing to the heart song

you sing to yourself

on a walk home

you might see yellow roses

and think of me

and if you do,

i like them the best

because they show us

how love is not always

red romance and moonlit evening,

but also a grandmother’s

vegetable garden in the spring

or a store-bought birthday card

with only a signature in it.

love lands wherever

it is invited

to stay