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Less than a year ago, I thought poesy was the only literary enemy in my life. “I write. I love literature, but poetry’s just not my thing.”  I secretly read poetry everyday through middle school and early high school.  If you take a gander at any scribbling I wrote in college, it is one long choppy poem waiting for a master to reign it in.  I did not like this unnatural feeling, this feeling that as a writer, I was not a poet.  Then in class, one day my professor stated that all great writers wrote poetry.  The scathing scratch of a jail cell door closing on my entire world crept into my ear.  I silenced it and devoured poetry. I revisited the poets I’d met as a child and read under the covers with my flashlight as a young teen.  I listened to the world. I wrote and erased, opened and danced all night and day with every word that came to me. I completed a graduate poetry class.

One night, rich in the belly with a casserole of verbiage and a symphony of my own mind, I found Poehemian Press.  The Artistic Muse, the name of their online poetic journal, spoke to me.  The artistic muse was what had slapped me awake from the fears that I was not a poet though I had been one all along.  So I submitted several my favorite poems. One was accepted.  Then this bud of a poet opened. Now, I have a chapbook published, thanks the Eva and her press, and several poems and a short story published in various places.  Stay tuned for a novel among other things. But I could not thank Eva and the Poehemian Press enough for helping me on my journey.  The lesson here is to listen to the muse, and if you are new poet who loves words – perhaps a little on the dark, romantic, Poe-esque and introspective side – submit to the Poehemian Press. Best of luck.