I began writing as soon as I could hold a pencil. I vividly remember standing in front of my second grade class, reading a story I had written, and the teacher informing me that I would be a writer when I grew up. Over the next 20 years I dabbled in writing, usually science fiction, a lot of started - and unfinished - projects. Be it a lack of a belief in my own talents, or just too many ways in which I wanted to move, I decided to pursue a career in international relations and went to college and graduate school with this in mind. Again, I always tried to find time to write, but when I would sit down I was either too exhausted or there just seemed to be nothing there.
That all changed about a year and a half ago, while I was sitting in a movie theatre, after just having stopped smoking a few days before. I had smoked since I was about 10, and it appeared to have formed a barrier around the feeling part of my being. When I stopped, everything started to come out again.
On that day in that theatre, I remembered how much I used to love to write, and an overwhelming feeling came over me of emotion like I had not felt in years. I hadn't been writing because I hadn't really been feeling anything. I went home and wrote my first poem. I had never written poetry before and had never really liked it. It never made sense to me. When I tried to read it, the words would swim meaninglessly before me.
That day, however, it all suddenly made sense. It really was that dramatic of a switch. It not only made sense, but I wanted to write it. From that moment on, I have been writing unceasing volumes of material that just keep coming out. It's like there's a voice in my head, and as I'm writing, I hear the next lines that I'm going to write, and everything just flows. I have a physical reaction to writing. I know this is true for many writers, and when I start, a calm comes over me, and I can just lose myself for hours, days, you name it.
I began writing about my own experiences in life and have since moved on to other topics (after having written a whole volume of work I call Home.) Lately, I have been writing about the "American experience" and my own situation of having roots which extend all over Europe and beyond. I write a lot about peace and conflict resolution and about my travels to various places around the world.
I also have been able to combine my love of writing and the arts with my work in the international arena. I am the Special Assistant to the President for Common Ground, a nonprofit international NGO which focuses on conflict resolution in Washington, DC. I am currently developing a project called "Search for Common Ground through the Arts." Through a variety of methods, including a website, the project is publishing the work of poets and artists living in or affected by conflict areas who are writing about peace and conflict resolution. My current goals are to utilize the potential of the arts to aid in bringing resolution to society's conflicts, and to continue to write, learn, and then write some more.
She is my sister from centuries ago
in peasant's garb
and reeking of potatoes and soil
of leeks
and wildflowers
naturally scented wrists
and rosy cheeks.
She is my mother from centuries ago
with blue eyes shining
which reflect the sky
and rain
like tears
falling away
and away
and we weep for the daughters we'll never have.
She is my grandmother from centuries ago
when time stood still
and other wars were fought
some were lost
with daughters spared.
There was no other poverty
and meal to meal
and grain to grain
we rose and rose again.
These are my children from centuries ago
hearts still beating
two steps for every one
hope and play washing away
with every step
and hour not found
the rosy glow
and wildflower pulse
not even a distant memory.
These wanderers are my kin
I watch
in horror
I watch.
I smell the soil
that fills their air
in pungent breaths.
I want to lie down
and wallow in my land.
My family from centuries ago
when peasants' blood
coursed through veins
and also sought escape.
Raise up your hands
and though your feet are refugees
your soul
has a home around the world.
She is my sister from centuries ago.
Stay away from men and women with guns who don't fear triggers just lines not death just too much life.Watch the sun shine in silence peaceful while there is no peace remember it shines on regardless.
When you wake up in the morning note the silence of dawn and the wintry chill that still lingers and holds back spring. Remember that all seasons merge gracefully into one another.
Don't choke on your food or swallow too hard just because you have some. Remember the circle of life and as children of the universe we all have a right to be fed.
Remember that everything's just fucked up right now and that when wars are over, reason returns. You'll wake up in the middle of spring even if all of the flowers have been trampled on.
And my heart just lies there on the end of my sleeve and we all stare at it softly beating there And I ask you what I should do with it, but you keep telling me that you don't know. I will just watch and watch and I wait for something magical to happen as it's covered in tears which drip on the floor at my feet on my toes and my vision blurs from the sting of the saline in the ocean that begins to surround me and I drown in the tears I couldn't cry before and I am washed anew by the pain I still don't know what to do with my heart now in my chest beating just as madly
I see what I've always seen
and never seen
as I walk away leaving.
The scent of such soil
will haunt the next 20 generations.
Dewdrops
last night's rain
the scent of soil
of rich dark soil
fills the air
crisp
clear morning
all would be perfect
if this were not Kosovo.
That scent would go unnoticed
as it has filled the lungs
of 20 generations
of my ancestors.
The dew drops
would drop like
these fields of peasants
and would go unnoticed too.
All would be perfect
if this were not Kosovo.
Hear that moment of pure sweet silence
you knew it once
it will always be with you.
Never stop crying tears for it.
In decades to come
you will search it out
Remember it.
you will attempt to recreate it
On new lands
that your children would know such sweet breezes.
One day
in the middle of the afternoon
in the middle of your life
you will look up from what you do
and realize that moment has returned.
Only then will your heart truly let you remember
and your "thousand yard stare" will come to roost in front of you
and you will once again know pure silence.
Your heart will swell
and your eyes will burst
with bitter tears
and dusty memories.
Run free your soul
and leave this forsaken place forever.
Come home children
close your eyes
and go to that place
where today's light and noises
are a faraway whisper.
Where mother's curtains
from windows on cool worlds
where breezes flow softly
and the air is scented with soil.
There are ovens baking sweets
and dinner is near
with mealy breads
and earthy grains
that warm you on cold nights.
No past
No future
Only now.
Now is right
and the sun is shining and all is right
the only thing wrong is yesterday
and tomorrow
I blanket myself in the now
In the never-ending sun
in mirrorless water
in timeless waves
without questions
seeking no answers
Waiting
for something
undefined now.
Now
in my head there is silence
and I revel in it.
Now
Like the sand under my feet
Real
Strong
It can support me unconditionally
gently
no undertow
(Copyright by Angela Koskie, 1999 - No reproduction without express permission from the author)