Every poet I’ve ever met was arrogant. They’ve all tried to impress me by listing the many family and friends who praise their work, and thing they should be published because they are the next so-and-so up-and-coming undiscovered genius. They then proceed to fill my e-mail box with mediocre prose, then ask me at every moments notice what I think.

“I’m not a fan of poetry,” I tell them. “So I’m sorry, I haven’t gotten a chance to read it fully.”

“Oh,” they say. “But you haven’t heard this poetry.” They re-send their work and request that I be honest. It’s usually something about romance or nature, and missing the appropriate vital signs.

“I read it,” I say back after scanning it.

“And?”

“Maybe a comma here,” I say.

“Oh yeah, I meant to put that.” Then they spend the entire conversation being defensive, explaining every move as if poetry were a calculated game of chess. My “honesty” to them is me “being mean.”

Then more poetry comes in. It’s a vicious and unfortunate cycle, especially after I’ve employed every excuse not to read their work. Being honest is hard when the reader is defensive, and even harder after explaining my picky tastes about poetry (and films, and jazz music). I am no expert. Asking for my opinion would be like asking for a two year olds opinion.

I always ask, at least, before pummeling people with writing and host a standing invitation to harsh criticism. How do writers learn without opinions and corrections from multiple venues? The answer is, they don’t. So for all the poets exclusively seeking praise, my mailbox is not open.