These are questions I’ve been asked. Frequently. The list may change as circumstances dictate.

How does someone become a poetry critic?

In my case, someone really didn’t want to read his Property textbook in law school. So someone lunged at any excuse not to do so, such as the need to write a sample review that he could send to Poetry magazine. Someone was determined, apparently, that the world be advised on the merits of Greg Miller’s Iron Wheel(which someone still thinks is a good book). For a more complete answer, read this interview.

Why does someone become a poetry critic?

The money. The fame, too. But mostly the money.

Why is poetry so difficult/annoying/pretentious, etc.?

Because poets are terrified by the prospect of being widely admired, making millions of dollars, eating caviar like it was peanut butter, and being followed around by platoons of groupies. So they intentionally write things that are difficult/annoying/pretentious, etc., in the hope that people will leave them alone, allowing them to concentrate on what they really love: Complaining about other poets. (Or possibly poetry isn’t really especially difficult/annoying/pretentious, etc.; it’s just that poetry’s quirks are no longer as familiar to us as the idiosyncrasies of, say, Grand Theft Auto.)

Will you review my book of poetry?

Probably not. Most of my pieces are done on assignment, although I do have some flexibility. But the odds are against it, especially if your poems involve hard-earned wisdom and/or foliage.

Are you the David Orr who teaches environmental studies at Oberlin?

No. Believe it or not, ‘David Orr’ is not that uncommon a name. Granted, the critic James Wood has it much worse.

When I Google your name plus “poetry,” I get a book of poems on the first page. Is that your book?

No. That’s a self-published book by yet another David Orr (we are legion). He claims to write poems that demonstrate a deeply profound appreciation for the simple everyday pleasures in life, whether he is “writing eloquently on ‘Clouds,’ ‘Music’, or a ‘Butterfly.'”

If you want to see poems actually written by me, here are several at The Poetry Foundation.

What should I be reading if I want to learn more about poetry?

I’d ordinarily be happy to answer this question in detail, but given the economy and my cat’s taste for expensive bourbon, I’m going to have to ask you to buy my book first. Sorry! (But I will say that you could do a lot worse than the various “Art of…” books from Graywolf Press.)

You have a cat?

Yes. Every poetry critic is issued a cat upon his or her first publication. You aren’t required to give your cat a pretentious literary name (“Albertine,””Longinus”), but it is strongly recommended.

Why don’t you ever write about [insert poet’s name]?

Because I think [insert poet’s name] is a lousy writer. No, really, there are plenty of poets I’d love to write about, but haven’t because their books weren’t published when I was free to take an assignment. Then there are the poets I’d be happy to write about, but can’t because I know them too well personally. Then there are poets I might write about but am afraid of being stalked by.

Do you pay much attention to the online poetry world? Blogs, etc.?

Sort of— after all, it’s part of my job. I started paying less attention about three years ago, after the fifth time someone started angrily denouncing me for a review that was, in fact, written by William Logan.

What is the best book of poetry you’ve read recently?

There have been several I’ve liked, and they will periodically pop up in the Poetry Diary portion of this site.

Why do you write so much about the way poets talk and behave? Shouldn’t we just care about what they actually, you know, write?

Because it seems to me that the sociology of the poetry world (a) matters, and (b) helps people who don’t read much poetry understand who poets are, and why and how they do what they do. Others may disagree, of course.

You make a lot of jokes in your reviews. But don’t you think that poetry could really use more serious criticism that is deferential toward the poet and his or her project?

Poetry and criticism don’t currently suffer from a dearth of seriousness. They do, however, often suffer from a dearth of interestingness. “Make it new,” said Pound. I’d settle for something more modest: Make it interesting. That applies equally to poetry and the criticism thereof.