Harsh Truth and Punk Rock: A Look at Tony Gloeggler’s “Workshop”

I can’t say I miss those “feel-good” poetry workshop days—poets gathered in roundtable formation offering polite, surface-level feedback on one another’s poems, careful not to spark conflict or jeopardize the sanctity of the “Safe Space”. Tony Gloeggler’s poem, “Workshop” feels no different, except from a teacher’s perspective, as the speaker writes,

                                    “I can’t believe someone pays me

                                    to sit, stand, walk back and forth

                                    in front of this classroom

                                    and workshop poems, spend ten

                                    minutes pretending this haiku

                                    about a backyard bird and a cat

                                    is worth any discussion.”

This workshop is full of nameless (and dare I say forgettable) aspiring poets toiling over a word choice, line breaks, and syllable count—and it can’t help but read like the same old encouraging think tank of uncritical support that churns out mediocre verse vultures circling the poetry scene thermals with delusions of poetic grandeur. 

In the midst of this haiku huddle, the speaker reflects back on a summer he spent volunteering as a Little League coach, or more specifically, Kevin Coughlin’s Little League coach, a boy who was memorably bad and frequently benched. The speaker writes:

                                                “…Kevin Coughlin’s

                                     father wanted to know why his son

                                    hardly played, and I pointed out the kids

                                    voted to play to win at our first practice

                                    and sorry, but Kevin pretty much sucks,

                                    maybe you could buy him a guitar—

                                    is his birthday coming up?

Gloeggler’s poem reads almost like an extended epigram with unadorned language and an accessible snarky tone that demystifies the overall message. This is a poem about truthfulness, the kind of pithy truth that can make or break someone. It made me think about the enormous risks inherent in direct honesty in today’s cultural climate. No matter how accurate a truthful opinion, especially in poetry, it will likely be repelled by groupthink masses who favor affirmations over in-depth dialogue, who nourish themselves with likes and shares on social media over thoughtful and meaningful engagement. 

In the story of failed little leaguer Kevin Coughlin, he got that guitar after all: 

                                    …and years later I heard 

                                    Kevin was the leader of a trash punk

                                    Band and dedicated the opening cut

                                    Of his first EP to me, Starting Point.”

Gloeggler’s poem ends with the speaker politely thanking the poet for “reading his work” and proceeds to tell him that he would  “love to see any revisions.” The speaker’s job is done, and done so with the unsurprising rhetoric that is to be expected in workshop. But the question lingers, what if we as poets were told our poetry, for lack of better words, “pretty much sucks”? Would you get carried away and throw punches like Kevin’s dad, or would it be the “starting point” of creating something better, something stronger, and maybe even a little punk rock?

I hereby cast my vote for more Kevin Coughlin’s in the poetry world.