I have the honor and privilege of reading poetry submissions for the Atlanta Review. Several times a year, a slew of poems lands in my inbox and I dig in, sometimes eagerly, other times a bit reluctantly depending on how my own writing workload is going, and these days, that workload is heavy. I’m a poet, too, and send my work out regularly, so I know what it’s like to be turned down, not that that decision rests with me; my job is to read and remark.

The poems that fall in the middle receive the most commentary from me, because I like to highlight where they struggle, but also where they succeed. Most fall down because they’re too wordy. Now, this is a personal preference, and I urge my readers to remember that writing and reading are purely subjective experiences. But I don’t like poems that are too prosy. The magic gets watered down, I find. Economy is key.

Another reason poems fall in the middle, and even tend toward the “no” pile is that they’re overly dramatic, use flowery language, spend too much time telling the reader what to feel instead of letting the reader feel things for herself. Some of these poems take themselves too seriously, as if the author thinks he has a corner on the market for fancy language, or that his vision can only be realized with what we used to call “twenty-five cent” words. I’m guilty of this sometimes, too, I admit. I’ve been known to cringe when rereading an early draft of a poem, especially one where I’m not sure of my direction, or even of my destination.

And that leads me to another point—knowing the ending. This holds true for any writing, a poem, short story, or even a novel. You have to know how you want it to end, because this is what the reader will take away with her forever. And ever. Seriously. Good poems leave you in the perfect place between satisfaction and hunger, between joy and anticipation.

A confident poet is easy to spot. There are no stumbles, no unintentionally vague images. A confident poet leads through the poem with grace, even kindness, or lets you find your way alone, along a well-thought-out path. It’s a matter of practice, and writing takes a lot of that. Years. Decades.

I didn’t start writing poetry until 2018, but that was after writing prose for thirty-three years and sweating every single word on every single page. My publisher, bless her, said on reading my first collection, that she thought I had been a poet all along. Now we’re bringing out my third volume later this month, called Diary of a False Assassin. And just who is this false assassin? Without giving too much away, think of the current political climate, how some view women who dare to make their own reproductive choices.

But I digress. I really do love reading poems for the Atlanta Review and hope all you poets out there will put them on your list of possible places to submit. We read anonymously, so don’t worry that I might recognize your name. If I know you, it will be only from your words. And isn’t that the best way?