So it’s one of those “I-Wrote-a-Poem-Today” days. One where you feel a little better about yourself, like when you leave church after the benediction (thank you, God!), leave the blood bank after the deposit (thank you, Nurse!), and leave work after giving it your all (thank you, Life!).
Trouble is, after a poem, you feel glossy good, like this is pretty damn fine stuff — manna for mankind, even.
And you generously put it out there, too, for a few trusted poets to maybe read and maybe comment on. Will their reviews by good, bad, indifferent?
One never knows. The worst judge is the yourself who hangs in your brain like an anchorite going nowhere. He sees Lord and Byron where others see Lord and Almighty-This-Is-Bad. Oh. On second thought and after reading a few maybe-next-times, maybe so.
Putting your work out there is a kind of gravity. One unfamiliar to Newton. New poems float so as to be brought down, sometimes gently, more times with a Wiley Coyote crash.
Get up. Dust yourself off. Write another poem. Launch it into the invisible and the airy. There is no other way.