Wanda Coleman (birth name, Wanda Evans; November 13, 1946 – November 22, 2013) was an American poet. She was known as "the L.A. Blueswoman," and "the unofficial poet laureate of Los Angeles."
Coleman was born Wanda Evans, and grew up in the Watts neighborhood of Los Angeles during the 1960s. She received fellowships from the John Simon Guggenheim Foundation, The NEA, and the California Arts Council (in fiction and in poetry). She was the first C.O.L.A. literary fellow (Los Angeles Department of Cultural Affairs, 2003). Her numerous honors included an Emmy in Daytime Drama writing, The 1999 Lenore Marshall Prize (for "Bathwater Wine"), and a nomination... more »
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Wanda Coleman Poems
In That Other Fantasy Where We Live Fore...
we were never caught we partied the southwest, smoked it from L.A. to El Dorado worked odd jobs between delusions of escape
American Sonnet (10)
after Lowell our mothers wrung hell and hardtack from row
bed calls. i sit in the dark in the living room trying to ignore them in the morning, especially Sunday mornings
the fall of velvet plum points and umber aureolae remember living
American Sonnet (35)
boooooooo. spooky ripplings of icy waves. this umpteenth time she returns--this invisible woman long on haunting short on ectoplasm
the thief has made me a gift of his night's booty somewhere, a daughter discovers her mother's coral brooch missing, somewhere, a man recoils at the absence
Comments about Wanda Coleman
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
In That Other Fantasy Where We Live Forever
we were never caught
we partied the southwest, smoked it from L.A. to El Dorado
worked odd jobs between delusions of escape
drunk on the admonitions of parents, parsons & professors
driving faster than the road or law allowed.
our high-pitched laughter was young, heartless & disrespected
authority. we could be heard for miles in the night
the Grand Canyon of a new manhood.
like the first sighting of Mount Wilson
we rebelled against the southwestern wind
we got so naturally ripped, we sprouted wings,