Yesterday I went to a poetry writing group. We each bring a poem and listen as the others provide suggestions and feedback, writing comments on copies of the poem. I have not yet reviewed the copies of my poem handed back to me. What to do with the critique? I learn, I improve, I become paralyzed–my poem becoming unrecognizable in the edits of others. This poem was born of sitting with this questioning and paralysis. In the end, the only thing that matters is to be true to the voice of one’s soul.
Critical Wind
I grow,
hawthorn seedling in
crowd of tall grass,
desperate for light.
Winds of critique
level the throng.
Resist, and
risk destructive snap?
Or bend, and
risk stoop permanent?
Desperate,
hawthorn seedling in
crowd of tall grass,
I spill toward the light.
Sophia Brothers Peterman 2015
