GW Poetry seems to brimming with unending debate and controversy. So I thought I might contribute my 2c worth, just for the fun of it, as I look back on my experience on the site as a poetry ignoramus.

When I first joined GW, I thought poetry was basically prose divided up into nice blocks with some flowery words thrown in for visual effect. I’m happy to say, I no longer think so. And I’m sure that happiness (and relief) is shared by a few GW members, whom I’m sure I drove mad with my LBR (short for ‘Loose Bowel Review’) on many occasions. After hanging around GW for seven months, I believe I've developed 'eyes' to appreciate poetry a little better, and to my great surprise, it has enriched my life. (I’m generally fascinated by people’s minds, the more tormented and convoluted, the better.  )

So I’ve definitely changed my mind about what is poetry and what is not, and what is good poetry and what is not, at least in my mind. I still claim my revered status of being an ignoramus in all matters poetic, so I can only offer my humble opinion using terms and references that I understand.

I find that poetry is a little like singing. I know when I hear someone who sings superbly even if their genre and style isn’t exactly to my taste. I know when a singer’s voice arrests me, I recognise the freedom with which they wield their vocal cord like a warrior would wield his sword. And I can only admire them and marvel at their unique gift.

Then there are people who can sing reasonably well, and indeed do so sincerely. I can see that they have worked hard at their chosen craft. I truly appreciate them, and moreover I can grasp what they are wanting to communicate in their songs. And I often discover nuggets of gold hidden in their art, that flow out at unexpected times with a strong current. It’s beautiful.

I am also acquainted with people who sing not so well—in fact, they sing rather poorly—but they really want to sing, and be heard on a very regular basis. They believe singing is their unique gift that they need to bestow upon other people, and take every opportunity to do exactly that.

Now, I am rated at around 85% by a Karioke machine when I sing. I even once achieved a dizzying height of 96% in one Karioke room, singing ‘Amazing Grace’ in hip contemporary modern style. And I almost burst with pride. However under no circumstances did I entertain the illusion that I sound somewhat like Celine Dion, or that Simon Calwell should quickly offer me a contract for his next recording project.

In fact, if someone like myself insists on inflicting their songs upon me regularly and unapologetically, then the kindest thing I can say to them might be one of the following:

1. Join a choir of approximately a thousand people.
2. Specialise in a different genre, eg. music from another culture more suitable to their range. (Ancient Korean music highly valued high-pitched screeching sustained over time.)
3. Dig deeper into their soul and find another ‘gift’ that doesn’t drive people to tear their hair out by the roots.

I believe people who are serious about their craft will seek honest critique. And the wise ones amongst us will hear it even from their enemies because our enemies will tell us the things we need to hear, that our friends won’t tell us. It takes maturity to give kind but truthful advice. It takes even greater maturity to receive it, and then still keep going. It takes deep passion and love of the art to persist with it, when there are a hundred and one reasons to give up.

I conclude with the advice of Henry van Dyke, that I take to heart with great comfort.

‘Use what talent you possess: the woods would be very silent if no birds sang except those that sang best.’