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Author, Janet Amundsen
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One late evening, in August, 1998, a tiny voice, she now
refers to as "Poetry," begged her to sit and write.
Born that night was a new woman, an even stronger
and more passionate writer, "The Poet."
Poetry has become Janet's soul's desire. She writes
of a torturous childhood, an abusive marriage,
her children, the dog she loved so, the apple orchard,
and the mighty oak she called father. Poetry has
offered her healing of a painful past, the resolve to
no longer live such a life, and hope that her words
will touch the heart of just one who will find the strength
to end the cycle of abuse in their own life.
Although she has only been writing poetry for less than three
years, Janet has many publishing credits already.
Her works can be found in the publications; This Hard Wind, Mind Fire,
IPM Magazine, and Emotions Magazine.
Anthologies; In Our Own Words, Vol. 2 and Southern Breezes.
Her first book, "Fly, the Poet," was released by Mind Fire Press
in March, 2000. She is currently working on the final edit
of her second book, "Emerald Dreams."
Her most recent awards came from the NC Poets Society's annual
2001 poetry competition.
Ironically, Janet never studied writing on any level. Her voice,
her images, her gift to spin rune into art, has come naturally.
When asked what inspires her most she replies, "Every moment
of my life has offered me another gift in which to share with the world."
"Poetry tells me what to write, I am merely her voice."
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Janet Amundsen was born June 12, 1963,
along with her identical twin sister,
to Robert and Dorothy Amundsen in Upstate, NY.
In 1977 her family relocated to South Florida
where she continued to reside until Fall, 1995.
She moved to Charlotte, NC.
Charlotte is where she calls home.
She began writing at age five, simple tales,
of a little girl, scratched out on any scrap piece of paper.
Janet could often be found sitting beneath the canopy
of green leaves of an apple tree reciting her stories
to her beloved dog and the audience of red, ripe fruit.
One of four children born into an alcoholic family,
her sanctuary became the forest, its creatures,
and her pen and pad.
When her family relocated to Florida, left behind were
the haven she sought comfort in, her eider-down-furred mutt,
and the many boxes of writings she cherished.
It would be many years before she would find the courage
to pen another word. To Janet, life in Florida meant death of the writer.
But, somewhere deep within she kept record of her life, pain,
dreams, and wishes unaware, that one day, a voice from within
would beckon her to sit down at her timeworn, maple desk
and breathe life back into the empty pages she thought
dead forever.
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Fly, the Poet
The Preface
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She Titled It, Fly
Janet Amundsen
Poetry has always dwelt within me.
Mute sister, twin of mind's eye,
never speaks so much as a whisper.
She sits quietly on the hard, wooden floor
of my imagination watching and scrawling notes.
I used to visit that room often when I was little,
yet, I never saw her there.
We grew up together, both birthed
from mother's womb. Only,
she kept herself locked behind the door,
at the far end of the room,
that I never opened thinking
it an empty closet. For, never once
did I hear a breath or sounds of scribbling.
And, no one made mention of her to me.
I went through life with the belief
she had died, stillborn, then quietly buried
beneath long shadows of a June twilight.
One moment there with me, floating within
our amniotic existence, only for her to breech
then choke before a breath of life,
until last August, thirty-five then.
I slipped into the room just to get away
from husband yelling, children crying,
bills mounting. There Poetry sat, lost
in thought, perched atop a pile of dreams,
unaware I had just walked in. My eyes
could hardly believe they were gazing on her.
The door which kept her away from me,
all those years, was wide open.
The room I hadn't visited in so long,
a mountain of words. She never heard
my footsteps crunching, climbing,
slipping over all the memories
she had lovingly scrawled
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then hid away until
their very existence drew her into the light.
I stood there, knee deep in her life,
my life, our life, drawn to her smile,
her eyes cast downward, black-
stained fingers quickly penning.
I was careful not to disturb her.
I sat down on top of one pile
of thoughts and held as many moments
as I could in my hands. Running through
the past, suddenly so thirsty, I sipped slowly
as not to cramp exhausted mind,
her images as clear and soothing as water.
I drank until all that remained
was what she held in her hands.
With tears melting ink into river, I gently
lifted her face. Those dewy eyes,
as green as spring, looked up at me
for just a moment before they dropped again;
A hint of summer blossomed
At their age-worn corners.
I spent many hours there that day,
reborn and in some ways, just born.
I watched her, silent but alive
and thriving. I rose quietly,
lifted the door off its hinges,
removing it forever, then sat back down.
Poetry was lovingly scrawling
this new moment, our reunion.
She titled it, Fly.
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Now Available
Fly, the Poet
by Janet Amundsen
released by Mind Fire Press
order online at:
www.amazon.com
ISBN 0-9678610-0-4
or through any bookstore
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My Writing Links
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