this is not a poem

Emily Dickinson published only ten poems in her lifetime, and those ten were published anonymously, perhaps, even, without her permission (Emily Dickinson Museum). Whether by her choice (“Publication is the auction of the mind” [788, Fr.]), or chance, or a result of society at the time, most of Dickinson’s poems remained unpublished until after her death. Dickinson did “self-publish” more than 800 poems by writing and laboriously “binding” folded sheets of paper into little books with string (known as fascicles). But the poet kept these fascicles to herself. Of the 1,789 known Dickinson poems, the vast majority remained for the poet’s eyes only. However, Dickinson did “gift” her poems to family and a few select friends. This brings me to the point.


I’ve read how farmers–wise farmers, that is–know to leave fields fallow for a season. These fallow seasons allow the earth to heal, to renew itself; to reclaim a little bit of its wildness, maybe. And so. This blog is going to lay fallow for a season while I evaluate its purpose and place. I will, of course, continue to write. How can I not? Poetry is the language of my soul; writing it is my lifeblood. But for a while, there won’t be any new content on this blog, or on any of the social media outlets.

Back to the point. I would love to continue sharing my poems privately. If you are interested in receiving random gifts of poetry from me, with much irregularity and absolute uncertainty, fill out the contact form (HERE) and I would be happy to share poems with you via email. (I suppose, if you wanted a handwritten poem via snail mail, I could do that too, although my handwriting is abhorrent, so choose that option at your own risk!)

To rest and wildness–