Jenny Ward Angyal

By Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA

No cougars are supposed to roam the Appalachian mountains.  They’re supposed to be extinct here, killed off or driven out by logging half a century ago.  And yet . . . here and there a single footprint lingers in damp earth, a wisp of hair clings to rusted wire, a blurred snapshot betrays the image of a ghost-cat slipping through shadows.

And once, echoing down the mountainside where I stumbled mile after mile over rain-slicked rocks in gathering dusk—once, a long, unearthly scream to pierce the heart. 

I utter a prayer 
into the darkness
that enfolds me—
may all the vanished ones return 
when at long last we’re gone

By Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA

milkweed blooms
at the meadow’s edge
she waits
for the monarch’s blessing
under a shattered sky

one strand snaps
and the tapestry ravels—
at dusk
a mockingbird sings
the old crone’s song

soft rain falling
through a starless night
she weaves
its many-colored threads
into a shroud for the earth

~Stacking Stones Anthology, summer 2018

By Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA

butterflies flutter
from the artist’s brush
in memoriam—
a river of monarchs
once flowed across the sky

slow spirals
up the summer sky—
scavengers
cleansing my mind
of its dark residue

I follow a path
of spindrift oak leaves
to a clearing
where no cabin ever stood—
its hidden hearth my home

the day
closes its circle
around me
silver voices
re-enchant the dusk

to keep at bay
the wolfish dreams,
I sleep
with gentle sorrow
cradled in my arms

~red lights 15:2, June, 2019

By Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA

the slow beat
of an egret’s wings
white
against dark oaks—
earth’s annunciation

vultures
cradled on the wind
endlessly rocking
the tall pines sing
both lullaby and dirge

the milk-white flesh
of a giant puffball
broken open
under the moon
an old woman’s grief

with this drop
of russet ink
from the acorn cap
I write nothing—
the oak said it better

a rift in the wing
of a wild goose
flying headlong
through gathering dusk
the fate of the earth

~red lights 16:1, January 2020

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Commentary on “Beyond the Threshold” by Tish Davis

Jenny Ward Angyal’s tanka sequence, “Beyond the Threshold” is exquisitely crafted.   There is a subtle progression in each of the five tanka:   

In the beginning, there is no immediate alarm.  There is no frantic reaction to the first two lines which segue into the last three:    

the slow beat  / of an egret’s wings /  white / against dark oaks —  /  earth’s annunciation.  

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In the second tanka, there are:

vultures / cradled on the wind

Vultures are birds of prey.  They gather in anticipation, patiently waiting for the death of the creatures they are observing. 

As the tanka continues the reader is made aware that there is a purpose in the vultures’ movement. They are endlessly rocking  

and perhaps that rocking is what piqued the interest as the tall pines sing  /  both lullaby and dirge.  (Quite alarming actually with the implication that young children and babies could be harmed.)

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In the third tanka, death and destruction are conveyed via imagery:  

the milk-white flesh / of a giant puffball / broken open / under the moon / an old woman’s grief 

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In the fourth tanka,  the color “red” appears for the first time along with the implication that this is the red of blood.  

with this drop /  of russet ink / from the acorn cap / I write nothing /  the oak said it better   

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In the concluding tanka, the poetess acknowledges the “grit” of survival via a metaphor of a wild goose with “a rift in the wing.”    

a rift in the wing /  of a wild goose  /  flying headlong  / through gathering dusk / the fate of the earth    
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Jenny, thank you for posting this!   A great read and also a good piece for study.

All the best,

Tish Davis

By Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA

morning light
gilding the treetops
as they fall
splinters lodge
in my paperbark heart

the sound
of limbs being broken
as if on a wheel—
bloodless the fallen hollies,
the heart of pine laid bare

the blunt thrust
of a bulldozer,
the shudder
of tissues torn apart—
who cries for the earth me too

a box turtle
crushed by the skidder’s tread
at the edge
of the leftover woods
this barricade of spiders’ silk

plumes of smoke
rise from the clearcut
silvery as ghosts
the sound of wind chimes
before the hurricane

may the words
that tumble from my tongue
be turned to moss—
creep over the wounded land,
bury the cities of men

~Ribbons 15:1, winter 2019

By Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA

the scream
of a red-tailed hawk
over the wood
where dozers wait—
my silent cry an echo

the giraffe
earns a place
on the Red List—
Gaia’s ghost
haunts my dreams

stacking stones
to build a cairn . . .
balancing
Earth’s bones,
I awaken to vertigo

fifty years
from discovery
to extinction—
a Pagan reed-warbler
sings in my heart

4% survived
the Permian extinction,
giving rise
to all that lives . . .
and to my flightless hope

~Ribbons 13:1, Winter 2017

By Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA

jack
in his woodland pulpit
preaches . . .
the right of the rain
to nourish the oak

the right of the leaf
to capture the light,
to grow
a forest hostelry
for a myriad of lives

the right
of the tree frog
to cling to the tree,
singing harmonies
of moon and shadow

the right of the owl
to hunt the mouse,
the right
of the mouse to hide . . .
the rhythm of their hearts

the right
of a woman to kneel
by the creek
on its way to the sea,
grieving this bloodroot world

~Drifting Sands Haibun 17, September 2022

by Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA

a boulder lies
where the glacier left it—
clear as crystal
the old crone’s memory
of fire and of ice

granite
under a thin pelt
of grass . . .
climbing the hill
her bones grow weary

paper birches
bending to sweep
the earth
she brushes a leaf
from her hem

a cedar
at the top of the knoll
riven long ago
by lightning . . .
the rain in her hair

empathy
carved deep in the bark
of a sapling . . .
gnarled fingers trace
the lines of her scars

~red lights 18:2, June 2022

By Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA

Dark-eyed and playful, childlike but childless, Elizabeth Ann needs an emergency hysterectomy or she will die. Her lithe young body recovers quickly from the surgery. 

It’s hard to know if she grieves—but her caregivers do. 

Elizabeth Ann is a Black-footed Ferret, cloned from the frozen tissues of a Ferret named Willa, who died more than 30 years ago.  The few hundred Ferrets living wild today are all descendants of just seven taken from a Wyoming ranch in a desperate attempt to save them from extinction.  They’re inbred and threatened by disease. Ferrets eat almost nothing but Prairie Dogs—an essential keystone species that farmers, ranchers and developers continue to shoot, poison and bulldoze as fast as they can.

beyond
the horizon of dreams . . . 
uncaged prairie 
shaped by Wishtonwish
fat in his burrow

Ferret and Fox, 
Golden Eagle and Hawk, 
Badger and Burrowing Owl . . .
a tapestry of root and wing
binding earth and sky

Elizabeth Ann can no longer pass on her healthy genes.  Her caregivers pin their hopes on future Ferret clones—but can you clone a prairie?

the grass bows down
and the grass rises
revealing 
one Small White Lady’s Slipper 
blooming against all odds

Learn More:

• https://www.science.org/content/article/conservation-first-cloned-ferret-could-help-save-her-species
• https://reviverestore.org/projects/black-footed-ferret/major-milestones/
• https://poets.org/poem/make-prairie-1755