Play Nice with Reviews?

We now know more than we ever wanted to know about speaking truth to power. But what about speaking truth to other writers?

Part of my work is to critique manuscripts, and assessing those darlings can give me hives, gastric reflux and headache. What if I tell the truth?: “This story lacks conflict. What I see here is not a poem, but a confession and I am not a priest to grant absolution, these characters are cardboard, the theme of the essay is unidentifiable.” Fortunately, that rarely happens. But the child in me says, “Please, don’t hate me. Like me, like me, like me.”

Do critics such as Harold Bloom, Dana Gioia, and Helen Vendler care if other people like them? I suppose they feel secure in their judgment and know that I’m out here–anonymous, but engaged–relying on them to tell me the truth about a book, a poem, another writer! Even when the truth makes me squirm. What if they were to say bad things about my work? (Would that they know my work.)

Ah, there’s the knot in my shoelace. Every negative review or critique scrapes skin off the writer. The idea that any publicity is good: I question this idea. I don’t much care for Billy Collins’ latest book, The Rain in Portugal, and I doubt he would see any criticism I set loose in the world. But you never know. Recently I tweeted a compliment about W.S. Merwin’s Migration. And, whoa! The next day there was a “like” from The Merwin Conservancy. Liking what I like and saying so publicly is, I’ve decided, more helpful than whining and snarling about what I don’t care for. Or maybe I’m a thin-skinned coward operating on the theory that if I don’t say anything negative about you, you won’t send me to my room for a decade.

Poetry, Music & Theater, Oh, My

Poet and critic Dana Gioia advised in Can Poetry Matter that poets Scanshare the stage with musicians and offer the audience work by other poets, more than the single focus drone of a conventional reading. Last evening the Denver Puppet Theater hosted a significant event featuring live poetry and music. The poets performed original material, as well as selections from Shakespeare, Sandburg, Williams, and other well-known writers. The musicians played and sang soulful blues and provided musical commentary and reflection to the poetry. Because there is no such thing as bare stage at Denver Puppet Theater, the audience had hand puppets to hold, play with, cuddle if they wanted. So our senses were well served: eyes, ears, touch, taste (there were refreshments available at the adjacent Zook’s Ice Cream and Coffee).

This presentation served up poetry in a way that was more than palatable. It was delicious, designed to woo an audience with well-directed, well rehearsed art that connected us like a web, a tapestry, a hand-knit sweater: music to poetry to performance to audience. Ah! And what’s more, it was a gift. There was no commercial agenda, no one promoting a new book or an upcoming event. No solitary, outsized ego being touted. No admission fee. The performers and director gave us the hours they had spent rehearsing, Zook’s gave us a unique venue with ample seating, and we gave back our attention and applause. Bravo, let’s do it again.

Merci to musicians Dave Greenwald, Mark Lane, John Rasmussen, director SETH, and poets Cyndeth Allison, Kathleen Cain, Cathy Casper, James Steel (aka The Man of Steel), Jacqueline St. Joan, June Shurrock, Roz Taylor and Marleine Yarnish. Applause, applause!