One of the things I find very revealing about the way the cult of popular myth treats Dickinson is that her poems--some of whicH are frankly erotic, you know--are treated as evidence of choked and thwarted passion, will similar works by male authors--Shakespeare, anyone?--are treated as evidence of complicated passions.
And women poets who did get around are consigned to the second tier of the canon, if they're allowed in at all. Emily squeaks into the top rank on perceived purity; Edna St. Vincent Millay and Dorothy parker can linger down there in the gutter with the drunks.
Right. I need to shower, make myself some breakfast and tea, and do some writing. 133 words on "Mongoose" last night, which is not a lot, but does tend to indicate that my brain might be regenerating.