She was the featured poet in March 2011 on the World Poetry site and her work has been read on the World Poetry Cafe Radio station in Vancouver, placed on display at various WP exhibitions (one of her poems was included on the dvd made of the Pablo Neruda celebration)
She has also been a featured poet on the Aquillrelle website and has 18 poems featured in the anthology On Viewless Wings - Through Crystal Air, vol. 5. She published a large collection of her works in June 2011, "The Echo of What Remains".
For a poet, there is only the poem - the artistry, devotion and craftsmanship this grand obsession compels. The blank page awaits its marriage with ink. The poets' ribs are battered from the inside out until they finally pick up their pen (or keyboard)and spill their thoughts, their very lives upon every page. My earliest poems appear almost skeletal to me now - over the years, I've learned to add meat, muscle and a relatively nice suit of clothes. However, there are still those moments that come, making writers cringe in frustration, simply because no matter how many languages one might speak, there are instances when not a single word will suffice in explaining the depths and breadths of carefree laughter, numbing grief and undying love - and yes, even the best memories may haunt us, too. No one can live on love alone, yet without it, the cupboard is always empty, the bread is always stale and the hearth is
always cold. There are times when writing will not ease the wound or unwind the knot. When it concerns our own survival, we are all so much stronger than we know - until the precise moment we need to know it. I've heard people say that they've worked on a poem for weeks at a time - by refusing to let go, to grant and allow its freedom, I think they manage to strip away its true nature, instead - and deny the birthing of others, as well. A poem is a fluid composition made of words, not a solid sculpture created from stone. The poem knows what it wants to say - let it speak. Don't attempt to carve a ship from a piece of wood that wants only to be a flower. The poem knows where to begin and when to end. Learn to trust your instincts.
Whenever I have been asked to "define my style", I continue to resist being put or shoved into any one category, whether it has to do with my writing or otherwise. No one can be defined so easily by a single poem they've written, a particular style they're fond of, or any other label society would thrust upon them. We are so much more than the sorrows we've known, the joys we've experienced, the events we've witnessed. Any attempt to "define style" is to keep your true, inner self hidden away from personal evolution, the opportunity to embrace change - that's just wrong, on so many levels. I believe that we should have some dreams that are attainable, to
provide us with hope and assurance - and that we should have a few dreams that remain just out of reach, to keep us stretching and moving ever onward. I've always been far more concerned with content than packaging. Having been a librarian myself, I "do not judge a book by its cover" or by its copyright date, as I have known both compassionate, enlightened youths and foolish, self-centered elders
alike - and vice versa. That being said, I am greatly indebted to teachers, librarians, publishers and bookstores alike for the devotion and passion for literature and culture they've shown.