Many Years Ago, in a Galaxy Far, Far Away

Delicate Sensibilities

For real poets, it’s more like carpentry

Once upon a time, I ran an online poetry workshop. This was around the same time I was naively talked into running an “adult writing workshop,” but that’s a story for another time.

My partner-in-crime (we’ll call him R____, since he’s probably still in the Witness Protection Program) and I were musing, one day, about how to help aspiring poets (as they all claimed to be aspiring poets) improve their craft, while protecting their delicate sensibilities. We did not want to squash their dreams or their poetic souls.

“Their poetry kinda sucks.” I’m not sure which of us said it first.

“It makes no sense,” we agreed.

“But how do we tell them?”

First, I consulted with a former professor of mine, someone I knew from experience gave ZERO fucks about anyone’s delicate feelings, and only cared about the work they were willing to put into the craft of writing. She is, or was, the editor of a prominent university poetry journal. We worked out a checklist of points to examine in order to give effective, constructive critique of poetry. Publishable poetry, like any other form of writing, involves work. It involves using all the tools of the craft. It involves some sweat, frustration, and a lot of editing. It’s not glamorous and it’s certainly not “let’s all sit around the campfire and compose moody verse.” It is not merely the outward expression of one’s innermost thoughts.

Readers of poetry are looking for a reflection — that essence of universal ideas and emotions that connect humans. They are not interested in a glimpse into the poet’s soul; they are interested in knowing that they are not alone. They are interested in seeing their own messy thoughts distilled and clarified, concrete as an ancient Egyptian obelisk, smooth as butter.

So, R____ and I, going over the checklist of things an actual editor of an actual poetry journal looked for in deciding what to publish, had what we thought was a brilliant idea. Being kind-hearted souls, reluctant to squish our fellow writers like bugs as they poured heart and soul onto the page, we agreed that I would write a sucky sonnet. A deliberately sucky sonnet.

It was full of self-referential pathos and bathos. It consisted of 13 lines of limping iambs, never quite hitting the requisite number (five, dammit!) in a line. The rhymes were forced, the word choice stilted. The couplet was a singlet, and not a particularly snappy one, at that.

I worked hard to make it that bad, and I am not even 324,567th in line for Poet Laureate.

R____, then, was to come along after I posted it and rip it apart — er, critique it constructively on all fronts, to show the class how it was done. Afterwards, I would graciously thank him, act upon his suggestions, and post my revisions.

You may already see the flaw in our plan.

Poor R____.

I posted the sucky sonnet. A few in the class began to gush over it, to praise it as if I were the next Billy Collins or Maya Angelou. I rolled my eyes, gave tepid thanks. Went off to do other, offline, things. Came back a few hours later, logged on, and my jaw hit the floor.

Poor R____. He’d posted his critique. Of course, he already had it at the ready — our behind-the-scenes planning saw to it that the little act was perfectly timed. By the time I got back to the workshop, he’d been tarred, feathered, and if doxxing had been a thing, back then, he’d have been SWATed. I could not do damage control fast enough.

Did I mention that R____ is probably still hiding out in the mountains of Montana, somewhere, under the auspices of law enforcement?

It did not matter that I confessed our plan to all who would listen. “You are too hard on yourself,” they said. “You are a great poet! God, that R_____ is such a bully! We’re going to talk to J___ about getting him kicked out of the forum. No one should have to put up with that.”

“No! Stop! We planned this as a teaching exercise! I asked him to do that. I read his critique days ago! Everything he said — every single thing he said — was valid! Here, look, I already have a good sonnet to take its place!”

They weren’t having it.

I’d apologize to R____ if I had any idea where he is, today. I don’t. He was never heard from, again.

Delicate poetic souls can be vicious, protective, misguided, and terrifying.

Don’t ask me to critique your poetry. I’m brave, but I’m not stupid.

Retelling of the tale inspired by Timothy Key’s Story: