The Critic

He said, I don’t even call this poetry;
your lines don’t rhyme
and the way you treat the reader,
sometimes, so cautiously, holding hands
then just throwing out
punctuation wildly like a toddler
with a packet of carrot seeds
and then wandering off
into the brambles
and leaving us to struggle
through them warding off
the occasional thorn
and never a clue
to guide us.
Your structure is a secret
or is it sheer heedlessness?
Perhaps you’re just a gambler
or you love the precarious
thrill of poising at the edge
of the abyss. I am in love
with words, he continued, but you
you mock and scorn
unearth the roots of our most
treasured facts and repot them
fallacies in these daily digs of yours.
For pleasure? Or are you a subversive
dismantling society
masked in the kindly stories
of a gentle-hearted grandma?
Oh, no, I do not like your verse
and even less what you are up to.
I listened gravely, sure
he offered a germ of value and oh,
dear reader,
how I smiled inside.

Inspired by The Daily Word Prompt: fact


Published by

Victoria Stuart

I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

9 thoughts on “The Critic”

  1. I love this – reminds me of how my husband reacts to my poetry (although one did make him cry, so he’s not totally unemotional, lol.) I like to think we are subversives – even more so since we wear the disguise of kindly old grandmas.


  2. When I first came to poetry class, what a snob I was! Oh please, how can you even call that a poem, I said to myself week after week. But the teacher would say, I love that poem. Look what you’ve done here, look how far you’ve come. I like your line breaks. I like the simplicity, etc. etc. She made me look at the poems, including my own, with new eyes. As for he who criticizes so harshly, trust me — all that will be a thing of the past as soon as you get one of them accepted anywhere!


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