The Poet was born during the most vicious hurricane ever to wrack the South Jersey Shore. Torn from her mother's bosom by the ravening winds, the Poet was picked up by a Cuban fishing vessel and bartered to a broom merchant in exchange for the hubcaps off a '57 Packard. Indentured broom servitude not dovetailing with the Poet's mentality, she escaped at the tender age of five and made a living as a professional liar until she was caught by a Royal Canadian Mounted Police operation and sent off to Saint Hilda's Home for Recalcitrant Waifs in the far nothern wastes of Ontario, where she learned to play the clavichord and to curtsey. Leaving the home at 18, the Poet made her way to America in the back of a logging truck, and took on odd jobs in the fair city of St. Paul, such as noodle inspector, seamstress, and amateur theatre ingenue. Finding herself at last in a state of financial stability, given the steady need for noodle inspectors, seamstresses, and amateur theatre ingenues, the Poet began to write, and what's more, to read.
Currently, the Poet reads as much poetry as she can get her hands on, and endeavors to write at least a poem a week, although she does not promise that all of them are good. Some of them are. You may see some of them on this website, although it is far more probably that you will see other people's poems, both good and bad. The Poet will endeavor not to mock bad poems, unless the writers are professionals, in which case they've opened themselves up to criticism.