I. THEO GIVES ME CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM
“This opening line, ‘I tell the sky I miss you every night because they said it makes me sicker if I keep it inside’—I’m sure you’re talking about a person, but this line makes me think you’re literally telling that sky that you miss it. And also I would add that it sounds like you’re ill, which, maybe you are, but just letting you know how it sounds.”
“Okay.”
“But do you see what I mean? Was I clear about it, or…?”
“I don’t think I can give you constructive criticism on your constructive criticism.”
“It’s just that you might want to revisit that line.”
“Well, in this poem, I miss someone, and I’m having health problems. You seemed to get most of that, so I’d say it’s a pretty good poem, then.”
II. JAN HELPS ME WORKSHOP IT
“I really like this line, where you say, ‘I was going to call, when they let me out of bed, but then I heard about all the ugly things you said’ and then it’s cool how in the next breath you say that you wish this person, ‘every good thing for worse, for better, for spite, forever’ but I feel like…”
“Thank you.”
“Well, but I feel like…”
“Thanks. Thank you for the compliment.”
III. IN OUR ONE-ON-ONE MEETING, THE INSTRUCTOR TELLS ME WHAT IT TAKES
“Do you have any idea how many people want to publish as poets?”
“If I had to guess, I would say most people don’t even…”
“Everybody.”
[Long dramatic pause.]
“Well, not everybody, right? Think about it. There are, what, three hundred million people in…”
“You have to want it.”
“Well… there must have been at least a few poets who never really…”
“It has to be in your blood.”
“It is. This pressure, like a dive in deep waters, it turns my blood from nourishment to monoxide, poisoned and served up by the heart, this toxicity drags on me. The deeper I went with love, the more I was crushed, atmospheric pressure equal to the heft of tons, first it cracks the rib cage, then the stupid heart breaks. The eyes rocket from the cavities they were meant to stay in for the remainder of their days. This diving too deep, this falling in love thing, it makes weighty these petty sins. They bleed inside, these curious men who dive right in, lose too much weight, like I have been.”
[He just looks at me. I can’t tell if I’ve impressed him or made him angry.]
“Sorry, I was just riffing on that one. I wasn’t doing a poem or anything, I was just goofing around. Sorry.”