I am, first and foremost, a traditionalist when it comes to the poetry I write. I grew up reading very little poetry, but what I heard from my mother and my aunts, still remains as some of my favorites to this day. I adore poems by Robert Frost, William Butler Yeats, and particularly Christina Rossetti (to name a few). There was always something about the rhyme and meter of their work and of others that I loved, but what touched me specifically was what was said in confined space of those short rhyming couplets. I admired their ability to say what they needed to say and make it fit into that stylized genre so prominent in much of the 19th and early 20th century work. The rhyme, in and of itself, was genius in fact because that quality, borrowed from the traveling minstrels and oral storytellers of previous eras - made it easier to commit to memory and recite verbatim. In addition, each new line created an eagerly anticipated moment of enlightenment towards how well the words connected to past lines, the beauty of the author's ability to complete each line with a precise, elegant phonemic familiarity, and yet preserving it in a sense of stasis - devoid of the chaotic entropy I associate with "most" contemporary free verse poetry. In my kindest and most candid critique of what I read in modern poetry journals, it's total merda. (Italian)
Back to my first assignment, I presented each student a copy of five of my best, having chosen from poems that broached the topics of love, mortality, and melancholy. The next week, I sat in silence (a requirement) as each student gave me their honest critique of what they liked, what they didn't and such. Overall, I was pleased with their responses. Then came my professor, who being what I've come to associate with a stereotypical English department professor, let me off with a gentle - "let's just say its not my cup of tea." Meaning???? - its so what??? last, last century???? (I guess.... ). To me, it was a brush off, not even worthy of having spent some real time evaluating it, other than she told me she didn't like me using a verb at the end of one sentence as she felt it was something that caused you to pause being out of place as it was. (not that I disagreed). But when the professor cannot find much to say about your work, when a class full of egotistical English majors did, you know you and your style of writing aren't respected at all.
Fast forward a year or so later. I saw an article in the local "Gazette" giving glazed over excuses as to why modern poetry seemed to be something of a dying art form and only appreciated by university academics and similar like-minded individuals. For the first and only time in my life, I responded with a letter to the editor that was scathingly and brutally above saying "not my cup of tea." I addressed many specific points answering why it was a bitter cup of tea indeed. Specifically, that it was often written so vaguely that even with the title, you had no idea what the author was discussing - and that in academic circles, that was considered brilliant and worthy of praise. In addition, minus the familiarity of the alliteration, assonance, and consonance associated with the best of rhyming poetry, modern free-verse was about as noteworthy of committing to memory as any given page of a phone book. I took other pop shots as well, but reserved my last at the upper echelon the previous article had tossed a life preserver to. I stated something to the effect that they had essentially thrown their superior egos into free verse with such fervor because they could write splendid articles and give articulate interviews about how its vagueness was something for the few gifted intellectuals to articulate, decipher, and thus fully appreciate. Having left out the other 98% of the population, we (see where I'm putting myself) held tightly to those insignificant poets who were actually making money at their craft writing song lyrics and catchy soundbites used in advertising. I waited a week for the next issue expecting a full-out declaration of war to be issued by one or more English department purists in the form of a grammatically precise, perfectly punctuated and diabolically defensive diatribe worthy to be published in the doctoral dissertation of an English department adjunct Frankensteined with a defense attorney. Instead, not a single rebuttal was ever to appear. You might say I felt both justified and let down....
Fast forward another few months and having enrolled in a novel writing class, I procrastinated on the very first assignment and had to write 25 pages in an eight hour span leading up to class. Admittedly, it was absolute merda. I jumped around in time, nearly killed off my most likable character, and confused even myself. The next week, I knew I was going to get slammed by my peers rightfully so. This professor, however, wrote me a very thought-provoking, insightful, and precisely focused three (single spaced) pages of constructive criticism addressing every issue concisely and thoughts on how I could make amends. It read like something pouring out of Robin Williams mouth to Matt Damon during one of the poignant moments in Good Will Hunting. I felt so inspired that I kept it and read it through many times (even to this day). My next 25 pages amounted to nothing short of a miracle in that I could have earned "most improved" had there been such an award. Likewise, another three page critique just as articulate as the first and all the more inspiring. My final 25 for the class was another improvement and garnered me yet, another three fantastic pages of scholarly criticism and praise. Even now, I care more about the critiques I kept than the story itself.
So I guess the moral to the story is, at least for me, if you don't like what I have to say, just be brutally honest and hit me with your best shot. At least I'll see the effort behind it and feel like a struck a nerve worthy of a dignified response. In hindsight, I think both encouraged growth as well as motivation from within. Some years later, my first professor published her first novel and I dropped a twenty-spot and change in support of her crime story. Even though it wasn't my favorite genre, it was immensely enjoyable to read and I applaud her in way she could appreciate, "it was still a good cup of tea."