It’s been so long since I’ve blogged, so long since I’ve Tweeted or Facebook-ed or posted on Instagram or anything, anywhere, anyhow, I feel afraid to start again . . .

 But I keep meaning to . . . 

My excuse: I’ve been working on my next book, which was due March 1st,  and I mean, due, as in no more changes after that date without incurring a fee, as in, changes are no longer welcome, as in, don’t be one of those annoying, demanding poets who totally pisses of her publisher.

 As soon as an editor says no changes, I panic. Because I am the typo queen. I am the revision queen. And I never ever finish writing a poem, an essay, a story—even after the thing is published. I just keep fixing it

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There are times when I rewrite a poem over fifty times. And it’s still not right. The same with doodles— I mean, they are never quite right. Today I am not sure why the outline, the frame, on this doodle above didn’t come through (except on the right) when I exported it from FLASH, but oh well. It’s a doodle after all, not a poem . . .

But back to poetry . . . When I am trying to meet a deadline, I wipe out. I literally write and edit in my sleep.  After a while, the poems begin to blur in front of me. Sometimes I have to close my eyes to see a poem clearly. 

 But this week, I have been listening to such great readings at the Virginia Festival of the Book, and I’ve been reading a lot of the social media posts about the writers and the events. I keep thinking I should find my way back into the social media buzz.  I should at least be saying something about my favorite reading, which was the one I introduced, a reading by January Gill O’Neil , Rebecca Morgan Frank , and Leona Sevick .

All three are poets of lyrical beauty and spiritual honesty. And humor. After listening to them read, I kept hearing their poems in my head.  In fact, I am thinking of going out and getting one of those pots Leona spoke about in her poem, “Self-help.” (You can find it on the link above.)

 She begins the poem:

First, get yourself a good cast iron pot. Don’t skimp.

You know what kind; you see them everywhere

And think, Who would pay that much for a fucking pot?

You will . . .