Essays, Art and Plays by Dan

I am sure God has a sense of humor and enjoyed reading my essay/critique, I hope!

The poem:

sunrise
I tear it up
start over
— Chuck Brickley, NOON, Issue 28, March 2026

My essay:

Almighty God’s Critique of a Poem

Well. Well. Well. Three lines. A crisis in just seven words.

I admire your restraint. When I invented the first sunrise, I needed light, darkness, galaxy formation and a universe to put everything in. You have managed with seven words. Show-off.

Let’s begin with the your first word: “sunrise”. Lowercase. Unassuming. I approve. The sun has received quite enough attention over the years. Every morning it appears, and people rush outside with cameras. After several billion years, you’d think the novelty would wear off.

Then: “I tear it up”. What, exactly? The poem? Yesterday? Your life? I’ve entertained similar thoughts about My own work. There have been mornings when I’ve surveyed humanity and wondered whether I should have stopped with the dinosaurs. The penguin, for your information, still fascinates Me. Your line suggests frustration. You don’t revise or reconsider. You destroy. I recognize the impulse. Have you read Genesis? Remember that ark struggling in the flood.

Then comes: “start over”. Now you’ve caught My attention. No subject. No punctuation. Just an instruction, delivered with the weary determination of someone who’s failed before and will fail again. I know the feeling. Every sunrise is another attempt. I’ve been making them since the beginning, and occasionally I still get carried away with the orange.

But I have a complaint. For a poem about sunrise, you’ve managed to omit practically everything that makes one worth getting out of bed to see. Frankly, I was offended. Then I understood. The sunrise happens inside the speaker. Destruction becomes darkness. Beginning again becomes dawn. Rather clever. Still, tearing something apart doesn’t guarantee improvement. I’ve watched humanity demonstrate that unfortunate truth for so many centuries. What matters is the willingness to try again. Hope, I believe you call it. Every morning, I illuminate a world that spent much of the previous night disappointing Me. And every morning, I return.

My verdict: The poem succeeds. Its brevity invites thought. And its ending leaves tomorrow unwritten. Four and a half stars. I’m withholding half a star because I am God.

Keep writing. Tear it up when necessary. Start over. I do. Every morning.