A Word About The Poetry

Some of my poems have taken nearly two decades to fully come into being. Many were first drafted in my thirties, then tucked away—revisited every few years with fresh eyes, adjusted gently, and returned to their quiet place among my files.

When I’m at ease, language often arrives effortlessly. The words flow, the rhythm settles, and I’m left only to decide whether the piece holds up—or quietly lets go.

Earlier this year, I unearthed several older poems and, over the past few months, felt called to revisit and reshape them. In their original form, they carried a more esoteric tone, sometimes messy, raw with emotion. I write politically, too, and I was struck by how some of those early works now feel oddly prophetic—though perhaps it’s less prophecy and more the quiet ache of how little truly changes. That thought unsettles me.

But my voice returned—full and fierce. Even my hands remembered. I’m now spending twelve-hour days immersed in my work again, and in many ways, it feels like I’ve come home.

I’ll be sharing several of these older pieces in the coming days. There’s still some organizing to do—tags to add, structure to build—but for now, I offer you the language of my heart. I hope something in it speaks to yours.

2024, Self Portrait