I think I'm a very good reader of poetry, but obviously, like

Hear now the words of Diane Wakoski, a poet who does not shrink from honesty: “I think I’m a very good reader of poetry, but obviously, like everybody, I have a set of criteria for reading poems, and I’m not shy about presenting them, so if people ask for my critical response to a poem, I tell them what works and why, and what doesn’t work and why.” In these words lies a teaching both humble and bold: that the art of reading poetry is not a passive act, but an active engagement, a dialogue between the soul of the writer and the soul of the reader. Wakoski reminds us that judgment, when guided by love of the art, is not cruelty but clarity, and that to speak truthfully of a poem is itself an act of reverence.

The ancients knew well this balance between creation and critique. Aristotle, in his Poetics, sought not to diminish the power of tragedy but to understand it, to name what gave it greatness and what led it to falter. His words did not silence the poets of his time; they sharpened them, gave them mirrors by which to see their own craft more clearly. So too does Wakoski take up this ancient role: the critic not as destroyer, but as midwife, helping the poem to be born more fully into truth. For to say what works and why, and what fails, is to lift the art itself into light.

Consider the tale of Ezra Pound, who looked upon T. S. Eliot’s vast and wandering manuscript of The Waste Land. Pound, a poet in his own right, did not hesitate to cut, to rearrange, to say, “This line sings, this one falters.” And though some might have bristled at such audacity, Eliot himself called Pound “il miglior fabbro”—the better craftsman—acknowledging that without Pound’s critical response, the poem would not have reached its immortal form. This history bears witness to Wakoski’s wisdom: that honesty in critique is not destruction but refinement, the fire in which rough ore becomes gold.

Yet Wakoski also reveals another truth: that each reader carries a set of criteria, shaped by their own life, their own experiences, their own vision of what poetry ought to be. No reading is entirely neutral, for we are all formed by our loves, our disappointments, our philosophies. To know this is not weakness but strength, for it allows us to speak our judgments with humility. It is not that we declare our word to be the final truth, but that we offer our perspective boldly, that others may weigh it and find their own path.

The origin of this teaching lies deep in the ancient practice of dialogue. Socrates did not teach by proclamation alone, but by questioning, by challenging, by offering critique so that his companions could refine their own thoughts. In the same way, Wakoski teaches that art must be encountered honestly, not with flattery nor silence, but with a fearless telling of what is strong and what is weak. To withhold such judgment is to rob the poet of growth, and to deny the art the chance to become more than it was.

Let the lesson then be this: do not fear to present your response when asked, but speak with both courage and compassion. Say what shines in a work, and why it sings to you. Say also what falters, and why it stumbles. In this, you honor both the poet and the poem, for you engage with it as a living thing, not a relic to be praised blindly. Remember always that critique without kindness is cruelty, and kindness without honesty is empty. But together, honesty and compassion create the path of true growth.

Practical steps follow clearly. When you read, read actively—ask what moves you, and why. When you speak, do not hide behind vague praise, but offer precise truth: “This image glows because it is fresh,” or, “This stanza weakens because it repeats without deepening.” In your own work, seek out voices that will speak to you with this same honesty, for they will help you rise higher than your solitary vision allows. And above all, remember that art thrives not in silence, but in dialogue, in the give and take of voices unafraid to speak what they see.

Thus, Wakoski’s teaching stands as a flame for all seekers of art: to be a good reader of poetry is not to flatter nor to condemn, but to enter the work fully, to speak truth without fear, and to help the art itself rise to its fullest form. In this way, the critic becomes not an enemy of the poet, but their greatest ally, and together they weave a legacy that time itself cannot undo.