While in her teenage years, yours foolie didn’t read much poetry. Having spent her preteen years from the age of four onward buried in books, she actually didn’t read much at all, being heavily involved in total immersion life experiences.
Then one day at about the age of nineteen she happened to come across an open book of Emily Dickinson’s poetry sitting on a chair, and read a few lines of it on her way by.
That evening was when she discovered that after reading the works of another poet suddenly she might find her own pen in motion, willy nilly.
She didn’t quite realize yet that she was channeling the spirits of the poets in question, but over the next few years, as distinguishable works from Neruda, Coleridge, E. B. Browning and all sorts of others flooded in, she began to figure it out.
Those poems have appeared, and will continue to appear, on these pages.
In these latter days, all these spirits write through yours foolie’s pen as a big happy team, and while they continue to compose in every English language style available, as well as to adopt a few more from all around the world, there’s not a prevailing concern among them that each individual piece be identifiable to a single source.
This poet is well aware that there will be some who doubt her word — or, to put it less politely, will call her a liar.
To them she responds that her responsibility in this life is to write the truth — she is much less concerned with who is capable of recognizing it and who is not, considering it sufficient evidence of the particular truths stated above that she is able to produce a flawless Shakespearean sonnet within five to fifteen minutes, without fail — on the subject of the requester’s choice. At this challenge she is indeed undefeated lifelong.
She also wonders whether these naysayers might reserve the energy of their ire for some cause sufficiently significant to the wellbeing of the whole to be genuinely deserving of it.
How do they feel about world hunger, for instance? Homelessness? Discrimination? Child violence? The refugee crisis? Perhaps a little of this “No!” energy might be channeled more constructively in one or more of those needful directions. Or perhaps not.
Please, as always, excuse in the background of this recording the noise pollution with which the poet presently lives.
“After Emily” (1:06)