Poets should ignore most criticism and get on with making

Hear now the wisdom of Anne Stevenson: “Poets should ignore most criticism and get on with making poetry.” These words strike like a clear bell across the centuries. For every soul who dares to shape truth into verse will face voices of doubt, voices of dismissal, voices of judgment. Yet Stevenson reminds us that the poet’s first duty is not to please the critic, nor to bend before the winds of opinion, but to remain faithful to the calling of the art itself. To stop and listen too long to the clamor of critics is to abandon the journey before the summit is reached.

The origin of this counsel lies in the eternal struggle between the maker and the watcher. Since the earliest days, when bards sang epics in firelit halls, there have been those who praised and those who mocked. Homer himself, whose lines have outlived empires, was doubted in his time. Emily Dickinson, now revered as one of the greatest voices in American verse, lived unseen and unread, her poems dismissed as odd, too compressed, too strange. Had she bent to criticism, she might have abandoned her art. Instead, she ignored the world and gave us lightning in words.

Consider too the story of Walt Whitman. When Leaves of Grass was first published, it was condemned as obscene, dismissed as the ramblings of a madman. Yet Whitman did not cease. He revised, expanded, and republished his work throughout his life, guided not by critics but by the pulse of his own vision. Today his verses stride like giants across the landscape of literature. His triumph was not in silencing critics, but in refusing to let their voices steer his course. He embodies Stevenson’s command: get on with making poetry.

Criticism, Stevenson admits, is not wholly without value. A poet may sometimes glean wisdom from it, as a sailor might glance at the winds to know their strength. But most criticism is like shifting weather—changing, contradictory, unreliable. To follow it too closely is to lose one’s compass. True poetry is not born of consensus; it is born of necessity. The poet writes because the words must be spoken, because silence would be betrayal. This fire cannot be guided by the shallow opinions of others.

Thus, Stevenson’s words are not a call to arrogance, but to perseverance. They teach that the poet must listen first to the inner voice, to the rhythm of their own heart, to the truth they alone can speak. To heed only the critic is to build upon sand; to heed the inner necessity is to build upon stone. And once the poem is made, it may live long after the voices of the critics have been silenced by time.

The lesson for us all is clear: if you would create, be steadfast. Do not tremble at rejection, do not be broken by harsh judgment. Remember that every great poet, painter, musician, or thinker was doubted, mocked, and condemned before they were praised. The voices of the critics pass away; the voice of authentic creation endures. Stand firm, and let your work be your defense.

In practice, let each seeker of words act thus: write without fear of reception. Share your work if you wish, but do not wait for approval before continuing. Read the critics lightly, as one might glance at clouds, but do not let them rule your hand. Surround yourself with voices that encourage, as Carl Sandburg was encouraged, and distance yourself from those who poison your resolve. Above all, keep writing. For in the act of writing lies the true victory, not in the approval of others.

Thus Stevenson’s teaching endures: poets are not called to bend beneath criticism, but to rise above it by creating. Ignore the clamor, and press forward. For the only true failure in poetry is to stop writing; the only true victory is to remain faithful to the art. And if you do this, your words, like seeds cast into the wind, may one day take root in the hearts of generations yet to come.