I’m reflecting on how I could have stopped writing poetry at any of a number of points over the past year:

Last spring, when a poet I’d known for more than two decades went on his page and threatened me because he thought it was inappropriate for me to tell him that, as a friend, I loved him. He decided that meant we were having an affair. He attacked me privately, then went on his page to tell the entire poetry community he was going to out me as a married woman who was acting disgracefully. I had to watch women poets, including those I know, console him rather than telling him his behavior was inappropriate. That is the one and only time I’ve screenshot a Messenger conversation and shared it. I did so to put an end to the unfounded, untrue, and libelous comments he was making. He immediately blocked me. I never even said his name—though I would if something like that happened again today—and I removed the screenshots the next day rather than leaving them up as I could have. (Update January 26, 2026: They’re back up on my Facebook page.)

Last winter, when a poet who’d been following my work for months and said he wanted to publish some of my poems left an obscenely hostile, sanist comment on one of my microessays lamenting the fact that people are using a bridge down the street to die by suicide. He screamed that I needed to be in therapy rather than writing and that my writing was the last thing he needed in his life, as if he hadn’t followed me and chosen to read, and laud, my work up to that point. As if he didn’t have the power to stop reading what I wrote or unfriend me or mute me or any of a suite of well-adjusted options that were available to him.

Two days ago, when a poet I’ve known for more than a year, perhaps the most successful and talented poet I know, lashed out at me for using the term sanism, indicating that I was “borrowing” the term, implying my experiences with abuse and trauma and my lived experience with bipolar aren’t valid because, unlike him, I haven’t been to war. It was not the first time he’d lashed out at me or the first time he’d engaged in disconcerting comments about and behavior toward women, namely women poets with mental-health diagnostic labels and lived experience.

That’s about one-third of what’s happened over the past year. Poets can be so toxic and vitriolic and othering and fragile and entitled and bullying—and even engage in nasty tactics like gaslighting—that it’s still hard for me to wrap my head around it. I am shocked every time it happens, though I shouldn’t be. Something similar but much worse is why I left poetry for years back in 2015.

Shame on those who engage in behaviors like this. Shame on the effect you’re having on other poets. Shame on the dynamics that underlie what you’re doing. Shame on you for doing everything seemingly in your power to remove folks like me from poetry in particular and the world in general. I mean the human world. I also mean the living world. Like everyone with a dignoastic label and lived experience with bipolar, I have a 1 in 5 chance of unaliving myself. Not trying to. Actually doing it. Anyone who nudges, pushes, or shoves another human being in that direction needs to sit with what they’re doing and why they’re doing it. Bigtime.

I had just finished my essay for Mad in America the day before the poet accused me of appropriating the term sanism. What if I’d pulled that essay? What if I’d decided not to submit my manuscript to any more contests? What if I’d decided not to write poems or essays anymore? What if my mental-health recovery had been compromised?

Folks who need my writing would have lost my voice, including my insights, perspective, and stories. And I would have lost part of myself. That could have been what happened because poets like the ones listed above make poetry too much. Too hard. Too unwelcoming. Too dehumanizing. Too rancid. Because of the sexual assault that occurred with my mentor, which took me away from poetry and—in a sense—my life for seven long and lonely years, I am always close to leaving when some new poet rears his head in a similar way, with similar impulses and similar levels of dysfunction.

But I told myself when I came back that I will not leave. I will not budge. I will not back down. I will be a 4 in 5 even if certain men in poetry have absolutely no regard for my health, well-being, or life. That’s the biggest fuck you I can give men like that.

And I will write. I will not stop writing.

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And those of you who know these types of folks and do nothing? Shame on you as well.

And those of you who think folks like me should shut up about things like this, who confuse us for the problem because we speak about the problem, who tell us to just get over it or at least not talk about it publicly? Shame on you, too.

I do not have the capacity for any of you. The work I’m doing is far more important than publishing poetry, that is if I have to stay silent about abuses in order to have work accepted or dissociatively participate in the system without being able to advocate for change within the system. I will not stay in the good graces of a toxic culture. This is about human rights. All of it. My life, my work, my purpose.

More notes on how and why I’m at an impasse with poetry. I’m amending my previous statement about my poetry and writing not being strong enough to continue with either. I think both are strong but that my poetry in particular is not aligned with what editors and publishers are looking for and that shaping my work so it’s better aligned with what contemporary editors want will destroy something fundamental in the work, in the process, and in my healing.

I don’t want to slot my poems into this or that mold. I don’t even want to be aware of what the molds are. Poetry is as much about breaking molds as honoring those that have a history of serving poems and their readers well, even if it’s just because familiar molds create one less barrier for the reader. But new molds do something for the reader as well, and for the poet. And barriers aren’t always a bad thing. Some of the most rewarding poems require thoughtful consideration on the part of the reader. New molds are important and shouldn’t be rejected because they’re unfamiliar. Not everything new is bad. Not every outsider poet has no idea what they’re doing.

The highly endogenous nature of poetry doesn’t always serve poetry well, as folks tend to gravitate to the names they know and the styles of poetry that sound a lot like the other poems they’ve been reading. How many voices are being missed? My guess is a lot.

I think poetry has moved in some disconcerting directions in the past few years in terms of what’s allowed and what’s not allowed, which extends to which voices are included and which are excluded. I’m not down with any of that. I’m down to write—and to write from my embodied self as it relates to the world. I don’t want to see my work altered to the point of being unrecognizable so that it can get published. What use do I have for a poem that doesn’t look or feel like me anymore? I don’t want to see my work or my life or my mother’s life gutted for the sake of having an easier or more palatable or less complicated poem or understanding of the world or understadning of things like psychosis.

I also recognize that if I had more talent or if my poems were challenging in the right ways (whatever that means), there would have been some evidence of it by now. That evidence doesn’t exist. As I move into my mid-50s, I have to consider what I’ve invested in poetry over the past three decades and whether I can continue to invest in it. Workshop fees, contest fees, manuscript reviews, submission fees, and more add up, as does traveling to read my work, assuming I could even get an invitation to read anywhere. I don’t have the time, energy, or health to keep up with the financial and other demands of poetry, all while waiting years for something, anything, to happen.

Then there’s the sexual assault I’ve talked about more than some of you might like. That experience in itself was awful, but worse, perhaps, was the poetry community’s response years later when information about that poet came to light from several sources. Hundreds of poets were involved in discounting the poet’s actions and claiming he couldn’t have done what he was accused of doing. By that I mean: hundreds of poets I respected up until that collective public outburst were involved in discounting the poet’s actions and claiming he couldn’t have done what he was accused of doing.

This is what I mean when I say pathology is systemic. In this case, it wasn’t just one poet doing harm. It was many, including editors and publishers, the very people I won’t placate now with easy-to-slot work that doesn’t raise anyone’s hackles or that only raises certain hackles the right way (again, whatever that means). There are too many of these poets to avoid. They live in every part of the country, teach at numerous institutions, and have published with just about every publisher out there. I remember what they said. It’s triggering to see their names throughout the day when someone brings one of them up or quotes their work or drops their name into a group chat I’m in.

When I crept back to poetry cautiously in 2022, I thought things would be better. They aren’t. The kinds of things that happened to me are continuing to happen to other poets. Poets are still largely silent about everything that happens in poetry and protective of those who create and sustain systems that lead to inappropriate exertions of power.

Navigating all this is weighing heavily on me. I told myself in 2022 that I’d go as far as I could go in poetry and that I’d stop if it became clear I needed to. I would just stop. I said this to myself as if it would be simple, stopping. It isn’t. Continuing isn’t simple, either.