I recently came across a social media post from someone who talked about the difficulty of being asked to critique poetry that in his words, “isn’t very good.” The writer didn’t want to make people feel bad by being honest, and yet he felt strongly that standards for “good art” shouldn’t be compromised. He tried to resolve the issue by comparing the situation to music. No one would expect to give a concert after their first three violin lessons, he rationalized. So perhaps I can make up some cards that say things like, “take a course, learn what a cliché is, learn what triteness is, and read some really good poems. Take your time. You’re not going to get it in a week.”
As a Suzuki parent, I’ve witnessed many beginner violin concerts featuring cute little kids with not too many more than three weeks of violin lessons scratching their way through Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. 
No one expects the audience to have a great musical experience hearing them; yet, this teaches these children early on that they have a voice and what they are saying through their music matters enough for people to listen to them despite their flaws and inexperience. This is an important lesson not only for the children, but for everyone in our goal-oriented society. Our all-or-nothing approach when it comes to fame and accomplishment minimizes the personal sharing of one’s art on whatever “level” it’s at, and amplifies only those who reach the highest bars of success, causing many to quit and abandon their own artistic voices when they realize they’re never going to reach that level.
This doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t learn what a cliché is and work to avoid triteness in our writing. It doesn’t mean we shouldn’t keep practicing our music and try to get better. It doesn’t mean we shouldn’t read great poems or listen to musicians we admire. I’m all for studying great writers and musicians and being wowed by them. I’d just like to see a more permeable playing field instead of a high fence between those who have it (and are therefore defined as “good”) and those who don’t (defined as “bad”). Why can’t we feel joy in praising the ambition of a poem, even if its execution might reflect the poet’s inexperience? Or—even better—praise the one true line or phrase that leaps over that fence and truly sings?
In teaching violin to children, Dr. Suzuki’s philosophy is to fix one thing at a time. One week (or for as long as it takes) you focus only on bow hold; the next on phrasing, etc. We should be that gentle to each other in writing—giving criticism that doesn’t overwhelm and overload, and which will help the writer on their path—whether that be to take one step further toward writing great poems, or to simply process what they can’t easily express in other ways. And instead of telling writers their poetry is “bad” or too far from the high bar of poets we all admire, we can simply say, “I hear you! Your voice matters.”
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Yet there’s a subtle beauty to the season, we just have to take a little more time to find it. Poem #29 touched on the varying shades of November: ochre, rust, mauve, sienna, even if at times the month feels like treading shadows. Today, a foggy rain is covering the farm. The autumn leaves, all raked up, are in the shed, eventually to be mixed into the compost to nurture spring’s new growth.
I knew I wasn’t supposed to stop, so I kept playing, making up something that was kind of like the piece, which was also cross-handed and in b minor. As I traveled an unmarked trail through the thicket of the keyboard, I felt the audience’s eyes like the eyes of wild animals in the dark, tracking me until I finally decided I’d had enough and landed on a final b minor chord. I stood up and bowed, waiting in an endless moment of stunned silence until a trickle of applause finally came like a faint drizzle, as I steeled myself to remember to walk, not run, off the stage.
