I can't really shine to Mortensons's metaphor because I tend to think of poets as adults with some sort of perspective, (and an ability to walk away), not kids ganging up on one another on a playground. And I've never felt "battered" by a critique. I've felt the sting of a truth, but that's no battering.
I've also felt disappointment in my readers and disappointment in my poems, but I don't think of these moments as violent.
Esther, I think some poems just won't do well in workshops. Sometimes we're just hellishly bent on having immediate clarity, sudden understanding, and rapid medication, (let's face it; we're staring at screens, time is always an issue, and we're reading with a purpose in mind), and that's not the best way to take in a poem. And I think some poems are beyond workshopping, (many fine and well-known works would be frowned upon here at Erato -- see Eliot, and others over on Musing), not because they're perfect, but because they're better off in spite of, or perhaps because of their spiritual "flaws". Other times the writing feels so intensely divine between poet and poem that any outside interference feels utterly vulgar. And then there are the other times -- when specific and learned feedback is so absolutely necessary and glorious to have, you wonder how you ever survived without.
Even still, I cherish and require my isolation, too. I don't workshop about half of the poems that I write. But as far as they go, this place is the best. Clawson recently said the best thing to do in a workshop is read your readers. I would add, know the difference between your own instinct and your own stubborness. It isn't alway easy, but it's good to keep in mind.
wendy
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