Dude you’re also coming at this from the white western patriarchal view on what “good poetry is”. She is bilingual, female, an immigrant, she writes in the tradition of another culture…. How can you even compare? A class taught by you in college would be a waste of tuition money. I bet you love your Hemingway and his conservative prose. 🤭
That's an interesting way of saying that she sucks at writing poetry. Ironically, it is your tuition money that has been wasted, as you cannot distinguish great, beautiful poetry from absolute drivel written by a dilettante. You paid money to have your head stuffed with ideology, and this is precisely why you have to resort to ideology to try and prop up her poetry rather than discussing the merits of the work itself. (It doesn't have any merit). That aside, I read poetry from all kinds of people and cultures. I understand that there differences in form and point of view. One of my favorite poets is Pablo Neruda, by example. But he actually knows how to write poetry that is alive. But you wouldn't understand a thing like that.
Being bilingual, female, immigrant, and “writes in the tradition of another culture” really isn’t an excuse to writing shallow, basic, unstructured and later on calling it “poetry”.. poetry. Sorry. Literally background isn’t the subject let alone something compared, (since it’s not an issue to begin with) rather, it’s what’s put into her work. Also the way you say it would be a waste of money to be taught by him, maybe i do understand your point of view.
Poetry shouldn't need context. If you say that her poetry is good BC she's a first- gen female immigrant? You're asking us to punch-down and give her a break - and as a writer in that same class (ignore my pic; that's not me), I'd wager that even Kaur herself wouldn't want you judging her writing based on her sex and race. No one wants that - and no reader should want to read something just to fulfill some quota, unless they're virtue-signaling. The truth is? There are SUPERB female first gen immigrant writers - Kaur's just not one of them. Also, I suspect she lacks the skills to carry out a full and extraordinary novel like, for example, Jhumpa Lahiri's The Namesake or Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things. And respectfully? Those longer works take more effort to read, too - not just to write. Give them a try and I think you'll be blown-away by the sheer talent of these authors - also first-gen female immigrants. My feelings about Kaur's writings are brief: there's an adage that says there's only 2 kinds of poetry - great and awful. And this is the latter. It's adolescent and indulgent. That's the most I could say. As an aside, if you don't understand why Hemingway is great - or you think the strength of his prose lies in him being an old white guy? You need to give your head a shake. For your sake, I hope your thoughts (and tastes) re-assemble better.
When Rupi Kaur published her first book, she was about 20 years old and inexperienced. When Homebody was published a almost a decade later, she was about 29. I'm disappointed to see her not explore anything new from the first two books or develop more skill at all. Nearly a decade, and no development as a writer at all.
I agree completely, great review. Poetry can be simple and to the point but it also needs substance, body and an undercurrent of emotion. 200 pages of one liners is a book of quotes not a collection of poetry.
@@rapier1954 but her book had been translated to quite a few languages, so it's not only a Canadian phenomenon. Obviously, not everyone thinks it's great but the word of mouth works and she sold a ton of books and people now think that this is poetry. Sad times for real poets.
My position regarding Rupi Kaur's poetry is similar to Martin Scorsese's regarding Marvel movies. There is absolutely nothing wrong with liking her work, that you feel identified with her phrases, that you are moved by her life story. All of that is great. But what she writes is not poetry. Literature is an art that deserves respect, we must respect great writers and value true talent and effort. That does not mean that Rupi has no talent or that she has no merit. Personally, I give her full and complete credit as an influencer, public figure, opinion leader, internet personality and also as a visionary, businesswoman and activist (although I don't really buy her ideas that much)... but I can't give her credit as a poet because that would be disrespectful to poets, her lines are incomplete thoughts and little more than that. I would add that I think it is very audacious of her (in a good sense) to have taken her writings to the field of performance because, once again, she is a visionary woman and has known how to capitalize on the attention she has received, she has known how to jump on the bandwagon of fame and has been very astute (or maybe just intuitive and instinctive) in aligning herself with mainstream themes. Honestly, I'm glad for her success but I'm not happy at all for the decline in quality that all artistic disciplines are experiencing. I hope my appreciation of this author helps some people to broaden their horizons. Blessings to Rupi, by the way.
This is a great comment! It's not a condemnation of people's response to her work to say that her poetry is not good. I'm all for people buying bodice rippers if that is what they want to read but that doesn't mean that we must validate bodice ripper literature as great (unless it has literary merit). I know many people who get upset at how little recognition "genre" literature gets in terms of general prizes. It seems like they take it as a personal attack when the literature they have fun reading is not regarded as great. I also remember the grief Bloom got for calling Harry Potter bad children's literature because it was seen as him denying the fact that it "gets kids to read." (of course his opinion would have to be reevaluated now that people hate JKR ;))
@@justaname999 Hi sweetie !!! Thanks for the reply, you have very interesting thoughts, I share your perspective 100%. Rupi is great, I think she deserves everything she has achieved, there is a vast audience for the product she sells and I completely respect that. I think that having created such popular books is something worth applauding, it is not easy to create and produce something so popular and I understand that there are many writers jealous of this woman's success. I see many wonderful things in Rupi, I have noticed that she has a particular talent for networking, she is very beautiful and glamorous, she manages her social networks very well, she is charismatic and has a good instinct for trends. I think the vast majority of artists from different disciplines generally lack business and marketing skills, but Rupi does have this going for her, which is wonderful. What she does not have, according to my point of view and that of many people, is precisely a commitment to the art of literature. Those of us who have read poetry of indisputable quality do not hesitate for a second to affirm that what she writes should not be called poetry, because it is not. It fascinates me that language is so broad that there are words to describe each thing and each type of person. I like to call things by their names and Rupi is a writer but she is not a poet in any way. And that does not mean that she should not be respected, I believe that she deserves all the love, appreciation and respect in the world for having achieved what she has achieved, I do give her credit. I think it's great that there are writers who are more market-oriented business people and others who are more purely literary artists, in fact you can be one or the other and you can also be both at the same time. And Rupi's audience deserves all the respect in the world, being a client of hers and purchasing her books and derivative products has absolutely nothing wrong, what she writes resonates with many people and not all the jealousy of all the envious writers is going to change that. Rupi is someone from whom you can learn a lot if you open your mind to the right extent. Hugs and blessings from Lima-Perú.
book stores are flooding with junk, i am an Indian but i didn't feel that i can buy her books without checking reviews online. thanks for the video, cleared me up.
Although great poetry is diverse, there are some undeniable features. The first is an absence of cliches/platitudes. If there are seeming cliches, they're subverted (immersed as they are in strange contexts), such that they're no longer cliches. The second is surprising metaphors/images/associations. The third is depth, ambiguity - which allows for multiple interpretations. If the poem can be entirely understood after a first glance or reading, it's probably not worth much. (Note: ambiguity is NOT the same thing as obscurity which in many cases is a defect.) The fourth is a unique or unmistakable style. If you read Emily Dickinson, you can see that nobody else writes like her (assuming you're well read). The fifth is technical and artistic mastery (or near-mastery): no word is out of place, the enjambment good, the expressions are concise yet the poem's well developed, and the highest accomplishments SEEM effortless. (Just consider Robert Frost's "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening".) If the reader detects labor in the poem, a sense of striving, it may be a decent work, but far from great. A rich and hypnotic type of music is certainly desirable, though not in all cases appropriate - depending on the subject matter. Extremely important is memorable lapidary language. One mistake a lot of aspiring poets make (including seasoned academics who've won awards) is that they're far too attached to their own views/beliefs; there's no distance between what they believe and the "poetic expression". (Which is why, for example, so many political and religious poems flounder, devoid of artistic merit.) There's no room for ambiguity or layers: we simply have the personal view/belief of the poet expressed. It often winds up sounding like a rant or form of propaganda. Deadly is the poet's attachment to what he/she considers "truth" because too much insistence on that winds up sounding dogmatic and stifles word-play and the imagination. Whatever depth the poet reaches is done indirectly, suggestively (usually), though direct statements can be powerful, with good timing. In considering what is or is not an excellent poem, one needs to make a distinction between likes/dislikes AND good/bad. Oftentimes, people (even critics) conflate the two categories. It's possible for me to like a poem that perhaps is not great, while disliking a far superior one. A possible reason for this is that the former's views/beliefs agree with or confirm my own. The poet may have had good intentions; the thoughts expressed are comforting. If I'm a feminist and the poem empowers women in that way, then I may like the poem - to the point where the line between "like" and "good" becomes blurred or they become synonymous. But they're not so. Just because I'm moved by a poem, it doesn't necessarily follow that it's a good one. Suppose that I read a lame, pedestrian poem about a cow. If I haven't read a lot of great poetry, I may nonetheless be moved by it because it triggers a nostalgic memory of, say, my favorite cow that I had while growing up on a farm. The poet may have used a lot of cliches; the voice is generic; the poem lacks layers, ambiguity and memorable phrasing. Yet I'm moved by it. So in addition to being moved, one needs to examine how well the poem speaks to an educated sensibility. And even then, because the educated individual has biases, his judgement may still be skewed. If, however, one keeps in mind what I said in the 1st paragraph, one can spot an excellent poem, regardless of personal likes/dislikes. Rupi's work is generally poor because the poems are often filled with cliches and/or platitudes, the line breaks are random (it's just broken up prose). They're fairly generic and underdeveloped. Most of them are one-dimensional, which is to say that they lack ambiguity; there's no doubleness in the writing, no room for multiple interpretations. The reason that they resonate with many readers is that they confirm the cliches and banalities in their own heads.
You sound like a professional either in reading, writing or both when it comes to poems. I was seeking guidance for a proper format as I just started writing poems and being a teenager I don't have that ace up my sleeve which I require So if you don't mind can you please suggest some good poets and poems with examples of the things you stated or just name a few through which I can learn. I would really appreciate it if you take this in notice as I really want to improve though people around me are not into art or poetry so they can't tell or guide me and if you don't mind I would also like to show you my few works so you can rate me on a scale. So I hope you won't mind mentoring and showing direction to a passionate young brat who aspire to be a part of the vast world of poems, literature and legacy.
The problem is that people confuse relatability with emotional resonance. A piece of writing is talking about an experience they can relate to and that feels like it's good "poetry." But it would probably be more suitable for a magazine article. There are well-written articles out there that discuss childhood sexual abuse and the repercussions. The poem you quote at the beginning of the video is essentially like a two-sentence version of those articles that fails to explore the topics in their complexity. And I do not deny that this can be an entry point into literature. Emotionally connecting with a topic can be the reason to fall in love with reading for many people. However, that does not mean that the poetry is good. It's instagram captions, essentially, which is why I think the label "instagram poet" is what should be used, possibly even a different word than poet. Nobody wanted to call copy writers poets when advertising got big. These poems are designed to do a particular thing and they do that fairly well: get people who are on social media to like these texts.
I'll add also that your selection of comparison poems was excellent! As someone speaking from experience, what Kaur's poem does is not helpful in terms of dealing with this kind of trauma. To any person who has experienced any kind of trauma, speaking it out loud is helpful, yes, but it's not adding anything for the reader. Actually, reading poems like the examples you presented, is much more valuable. It took a long time to have a healthy relationship to sexual experience, and literature that approaches the topic in truly unique ways, can be unbelievably helpful because it takes you out of the "straightforward" discourse and can help you connect with yourself in a new way. Especially when it comes to the shame we heap on ourselves. The Rilke and Neruda are outside of that. They transcend that view and that discourse of shame because they have an immediate connection to the physical and psychological experience and all that is amazing about it. Had a therapist told me this before I felt it actually work, I would have laughed in their face. Rupi Kaur's poems, however, do not do that. They echo back a part of the experience without adding much.
I enjoyed your presentation. A thoughtful comparison between Rupi's poem and those of Rilke, Neruda, and Larkin. Through that comparison you were able to show what works and how it works. A good exercise for poets of all levels is to write without naming the subject. Rupi's poem about sex was way too underdeveloped, cliched, and prosaic. By not using the word "sex", one gives oneself room to be suggestive and play with the language. You brought that point across well. One detail, though: being simple, or simplicity, can be divine. What I think you meant was that Rupi's poetry is simplistic, which is different.
Your channels great - subscribed. When I hear "lurched," I think of someone drunk and stumbling, which of course doesn't make the image any less devastating.
Thank you for your review. I'm trying to find something good for my young adult daughter. Everything that is recommended I find they romanticize depression, sexual degeneration, victim hood, etc. I think I'm just going to stick to a classic and hope she likes it.
I recommend her book, and I’m a young woman.. I don’t think you should trust a middle ages Caucasian man on what’s best for your young teenage woman. Rupi has helped me alot
@@krystalshepherd4582 yeah, as a female teenager who was 13 when I got ‘the sun and her flowers’ It did not impact me. It’s one liners meant nothing, falling flat. I’m glad that somehow I was able to move past it and find good poetry.
Great idea. There's nothing modern or new about depression or any of the other experiences you describe. They transcend generations and time, and great writing does, too.
i appreciate your work here. Thank you for taking her work serious enough to actually pay attention to quality. Imo, you actually respect her poetry by not holding back from your opinion.
@PoetryandPrejudice I was wondering have you read any poems by Carol Ann Duffy, if you haven't I would recommend The World's Wife - a book of poems all talking about the figures of mythology, film, literature and so forth but from a woman's perspective its brilliant, funny, insightful, moving and it writes circles around Rupi Kaur's work. I also would like to recommend Rapture from the same poet. It's a book of poetry following the chronology of a romance from its beginning to its inevitable end. When you have read these books is it okay if I ask, can you do a video on them please? Great video all the best 😊👍
Loved this analysis! I was not expecting to hear my favourite poet mentioned in this particular video, but she was - Wisława Szymborska ( she won the Nobel Prize in 1996) and also another good poet from my country - Zbigniew Herbert. And yes, they are very distinct from each other. I will check Pablo Neruda.
I would really like to know your poetry book or author recommendations :) This was a very illuminating video for me. I used to be a poetry enthusiast but I'm recently trying to drabble back to it.
I haven't posted on this channel in a while, but I am going to start posting regularly on it again this coming week. So, you will be getting plenty of my recommendations!
He did mention Wisława Szymborska, a Nobel Prize-winning poet. She is my favourite too. Her poems are short, fresh and interesting, written in free verse, and also understandable. Classics are, for the most part, too difficult for an average person who didn't study English Literature.
A simpler path: Acknowledge poetry is the wrong framing for what she's doing. It's more like proverbs, poetry, musings and meditations all rolled into one.
Being a literature student, I’m not a fan at all. She has decent catch on wordplay so that’s the reason people love her poetry (especially who are not into poetry much but Instagram)
Stumbled across your video because my gf likes Rupi and is attending her show. I’ve remained silent because I simply find her work stale and very unpoetic. I personally believe she built an Instagram fan base simply because poetry is no longer mainstream… in other words, her fans are not poetry readers and would not be able to cite a famous poet of the last 200 years.
Today is Thursday, August 3, 2023, two years after the original posting. I am a Traditionalist when it comes to my writing and enjoyment of poetry; albeit a s an amateur, since I am not yet published. I think the generally accepted term for that nowadays is “New Formalism”. New Formalism, Hell! What is that supposed to mean? Does it imply that there is a gap in the structure of poetry from, say, the time of Rudyard Kipling to now, when many poets in the 20th century wrote using free verse or open form? I can accept that at face value. However, to me, if a poem does not have meter or rhyme, then it is merely “fractured prose”, and the person writing it is trying to masquerade as a poet and does not realize that they do not have the gift from the Muses. Yes, I am saying that if the Muses existed, they are, in fact, Traditionalists and have always been. So, I feel quite comfortable with the opinion of Field Marshal Wavell in his well accepted anthology “Other Men’s Flowers”, and in the opinion of Victor David Hanson. At least Her Late Majesty Queen Elizabeth II was thoughtful enough to have her Lady-In-Waiting, Lady Susan Hussey, to sign a thank you letter for the two poems I wrote for her.
A "straghtforward", explanation on how to use the power of poetry to describe and explore a complex, difficult subject. Rupi Kaur's work, if one can call it that, has no power and is not poetry.
The bottom line is that there are great poets out there, a few of whom could reasonably be compared with past masters. Yet they're barely getting any attention. You could select any of the poems posted here and write a 1000 word essay, bringing out the nuances and connotations. "Rain", for example, has about as much condensed complexity as a good short novella.
I hope you won't mind naming few works which fit in the definition that you just stated above. Because a man with questions come to the one can provide inspiration.
Mine: Forgiveness Anonymous One, There is no forgiveness because remorse and regret Have no place in what is, can never thrust Into mystery, like impotent mosquitoes can't pierce through bust Or ancient block, but at any rate, my Love, The fishnet's cast down from a vast Above Onto apples along a road Curving upward, cast on a hermit singing bird, And on tender echoes of word furled on word. Memories, like shadows of a star, Twine, twist in the space of what we are, And the fishnet is all about us Refreshing, invigorating the grass and trees, Thunder shaking the wilderness to the core With lips of lightning... We gather our vast store... One night of attention, and the rest is as You please. We forgive nothing, but we love giving love, Or love loves giving without thinking of Scars and staring at them, scratching anew: Forgiveness is resentment's residue. Unadulterated, or Paul's Confession Like so many nickels and dimes tossed into songs and rhymes as into beggars' hats are words of love. Hypocritical, cheap are those words of love... I love the songs and rhymes, I love to sing, love being lost in the woolly, warm dream. Yet I enter the office or subway, pass the passersby and a lacklustre theme of simple tolerance or indifference slides like a fog, about me many a ghost. I see bodies, am indifferent to most, and I feel better when I'm alone. Like others I'm drawn to romance; like others I intensely love the few; like others I'm a child of circumstance: lover and beloved die or part ways, love is for a time, love itself decays, love tethered to self-centred desire. My love is selfish, select and small, and loving words seldom mirror the heart. But respect, tolerance, indifference, dislike unadulterated play the greater part. Grey No - not the grey of ashes out of which the Phoenix rises nor the ashen grey of a head sometimes whose eyes glow winsomely, with wisdom. Who knows when this grey crept into your life, so softly, so imperceptibly, gradually one couldn't pin it to a single day, single occurrence or event. Your daughter, balloons about her, blows out the candles, and eats her cake and your second daughter's on the floor playing house and with her doll, and your relatives laugh, they take delight and your smile sails along. You have done well for yourself, a solid man with a caring wife, and your friends are there... Yet who knows when this grey had crept into your life so softly, so imperceptibly, gradually, not pinned to a single day. What has happened to wonder, elation? Beauty no longer moves you. What makes the child linger long you pass quickly with a good word or nod. You might half-heartedly applaud, insensitivity behind what's strong. You're reliable as a floor of solid oak and all are pleased with solid oak - though each day's like every other day and grey holds sway. Grey (2) No - not the grey of ashes out of which the Phoenix rises nor the ashen grey of a head sometimes whose eyes glow winsomely, with wisdom. Who knows when this grey crept into your life, so softly, so imperceptibly, gradually one couldn't pin it to a single day, single occurrence or event. You look at your wife: memory presumes it knows her, overlooking her blooms. You're in the bathroom now and look in the mirror: what does this face say? The grey about it smells like over-accumulation, overstimulation... All those books, all those movies, all that knowledge and information, all those experiences blooming like mazes of elaboration you called the fullness of life. They weren't. You see today they had conceived numbness and grey. In simplicity, a still heart are the fullness of life and the throbbing vitality of your wife. The Gift of Radiance Before I met her whom radiance delighted in playing, a radiance rippling as us two, I was absorbed in my rights and due, what I deserve, don't deserve, and fair play. I pursued power, pursued my own way, cherished an image of my lover-to-be, how she ought to treat and give to me. So natural, so common, so widespread did these thoughts and desires seem... Yet when that radiance one day delighted alighted upon my way, writing herself as a poet's dream, she revealed my thoughts of rights and due, what I deserved and didn't and fair play had been poor substitutes, impoverishment, limping beggar-like upon their way... I pursued power before seeing the gate of radiance, as a being devoid of love can't help but be drawn to the second rate.
Mine: The Young Man Sometimes when she saw someone turn around The corner, or pass through a restaurant door, Or when spring with its symphonic score Of buds performed and surged without a sound, She felt him, a presence, an absence, and more... There was no longer grief, but a strange pain, A part of her that thought the young man hadn't died, A part that thought she would meet him again. But she knew, she knew it was fantasy, Though the fantasy bore a grain of truth. Certainly the vibrancy, the light of this youth Looked through the eyes of the passersby, Looked through the eyes of those Sitting at the restaurant tables, looked from the sky When summer was absorbed in poetic blue, When winter was absorbed in the sharpest prose. When the young man was alive, they would share... Presence had reached an exuberant pitch Of love, adventure - but his absence would stitch A raiment of wisdom which she would wear, Being led back to her majestic heart, Being guided through life - breathing art. Cote-Des-Neiges Street, Montreal Softly submerged is Cote-des-Neiges street in the strangeness of new shops, delight of couples, in accordion-twilight, and in absence of stores where we used to go, a child and his mother 40 years ago. I feel you gazing at me through a church tree - from the horizon's crimson glow, a wound still fresh, and as a window's rose-struck glaze. I see you in a thousand other ways, hear the accordion, voice of you, the accordion growing faint, fading - a still more piercing voice of you. The mind intercedes, a tale ten times told, offering itself like sagacious gold to a stubborn, clinging child who half-believes. But the heart doesn't follow, the heart still grieves. A Glass of Water Drunk One June Morning June wears a dress of a waterfall's roar, glory gone galloping, crashing against jagged rocks, splitting apart - like cognition cracked in the face of disease. The water nevertheless winds its way, an egret poised within it, the egret spreading its wings, soon steeped in the glow of ever-widening rings. The water makes its way to where it's purified... A boy attending high school turns on the kitchen tap and drinks a glass of water. Refreshment reaps a sigh. His eyes open wide... Laughter ripples, the light of some idea poised within it - an idea spreading its wings, in time delighting in ever-widening rings... A youthful penchant for winged words grows and gives birth to other birds , the idea never leaving him, the idea whose different incarnations suffuses, spirit-like, many nations... Leaving These Palace Gates I won't keep you within these palace gates. You are free to go. You say a love compels you below, back to Earth. How, child, do you know you will remember your resolve, remember all this, remember Me? Birth does not guarantee you will follow through or even receptivity to those not so benighted as you may turn out to be. I won't keep you within these palace gates. You feel all those still suffering, still struggling and in need, and yes, follow, child, follow love's lead. And be aware: the realm realms below can drive you mad, make you coarse, befoul your seeing, lead you astray from your original course. For every fortunate, freakish fish that escapes the fisherman's net thousands flap helplessly, are caught, thousands sent off to the mouths of conditioning, contamination, rot. This love like a gong resounds your resolve. All is blessed in spite of all; all's for the best. Love sees the luminous palace, steeped in this; a healthy one sees health, bliss sees bliss, a husband or wife in the honeymoon. I won't keep you within the palace gates. You carry the sun and moon and infinitely more. Be aware that what seems most natural, like air, maybe your earthly parents, your own mind, may compound the mud of forgetfulness, may be enemies to which you grow resigned. This love like a gong resounds your resolve. All is blessed in spite of all; all's for the best. Be aware, child, before you go, though conviction boil as passionate blood, you may come to live on Earth despondent, sinking deeper in the mud, catching no whiff of these blessings one and all, as if this love had never existed at all. The Whole Like an airplane's shadow appearing as the airplane nears the ground, so does the shadow of separation emerge upon my waking each morning. In this shadow are born my vices and my virtues too: others need my mercy, my compassion, my aid. Within this shadow both wars and a temporary peace are made. I who assist Ukraine today will conceive or create hostility, an enemy some other day. Yet truth is like someone taking a shower. In the bathtub stands a single body. It's not that one arm or leg has power over the other, or that a hand extends generosity by washing the chest. A single undivided body attends to the whole. And health sees that none is best - not the brain nor stomach nor lungs nor heart. The whole suffers along with the part.
Mine: Mother to Son For some months I have left you alone, For I saw that a flower does not grow The more easily with a rain of stone, Or insistence such-and-such should not be so. I would not confine you with my country's past Nor impose upon you my culture's cast. Questions about these can feather your sky, Can weave their arcs in a passionate style, And you can be sure I'll oblige with a smile. But if no questions stir and break their shells, I won't be bothered, I will leave you be. But I fear there's as yet no clarity About freedom: It is not desire Simply to do what your pleasures demand, To be in the clutch of frivolity's hand. A cell can be of gold, a comfort as well, But it remains, after all, a prison cell. You wanted to paint, you expressed passion, But you expected the stars at the start. You thought excitement was the kin of stars, And so boredom quietly crept in your heart. If you're to be seized by a sublime space Within, with the brushstroke being its kiss, You must not presume upon instant grace, Nor allow excitements to dominate. Dodging boredom, you'll never have a rich store. Each pleasure will leave you emptier than before. If pleasure and excitement are your nutrition, You will never grow petals; no sublime space Will court you, or bestow a master's grace. March 22nd The farmer was bending over furrowed land When the sandy, serpentine trail claimed me. There was an embrace of irregularities, A nonchalant dismissal of symmetries. Imagined perfection had no business being there. Jagged rocks thrusted, asserted themselves. There were muddy patches and caked brown leaves. A few brown leaves crackled on dignified trees. Broken boughs, fallen pine needles, pine cones, The coarse bark, the pine trees, crooked and humped, The hiker, slightly turned, peeing up ahead, Other types of trees leaning, almost mischievously, As though by some imagined door, overhearing A secret or confession of someone they loved - All received the warmth and affection of March. Amidst such affection, I sometimes heard The distant call of a train, the cacophony Of dogs, the twitter or piercing note of a bird, Someone thumping down a brow of wooden stairs, Talking on his cell phone of mundane affairs. There was no disturbance, but a silence Cradling March light, a sweet acceptance, A space, delighted, seeming profoundly amused At its own various playful expressions, Not labeling one as higher or lower. I passed a hillock with straight and crooked tombstones, Turned, and reached a little secluded spot, Where small birds - not woodpeckers - were pecking At dark naked boughs, jaunty, sometimes hopping upward, Sometimes swinging downward, alighting on other trees. They continued their business closer and closer To me, or busy play, whatever it was. They pecked away on the same tree, moving away From each other on nearly level, opposite boughs Until they became eyes of a beautiful, strange face With dark webs or veins by which the clear sky Smiled a quiet, mischievous, welcoming smile. I stayed awhile and the twilight awoke - Old thoughts would return as surely as night; Confusion would burn, and that was all right - And I made my way back, growing hungry.
I'm disappointed you haven't continued this because you have a very interesting way of explanation, tho I understand, I wouldn't want to waste any more time with this book either. If I'm allowed to be blunt, the big issue with Kaur's texts is that they're either lazy or uncreative. Poetry has its line-breaks because you can work with verses in ways thats you can't with prose text. Rupi Kaur does line-breaks so the text is easier to read. That's also why she can't be more expressive. The texts have to be summaries of events, instead of descriptions of them, to be understood by as many people as possible without actually getting uncomfortable. A lot of people respect Rupi Kaur because she writes about sa and womanhood, but that's the deal: It's not her texts about these topics that are respectable, just the fact that she's writing about these topics. And at that point you have failed as a poet
But I've heard she didn't go through those issues herself that she writes about, she just chose them as topics, perhaps that's why she can't write well about those experiences plus, of course, the general lack of craft for writing good poetry. Somebody else mentioned that she admitted she doesn't even read poetry.
Mine: What Is This? What is this which needs no object - no lover or friend, no dance, no music, no image, no scent yet is entirely in its element? What is this which has no face, wherein achievement, attainment or any goal has no place, an incomparable joy without a reason for being? Myriad people, faces and places loved and once thought lost are now restored imageless, as though their beauty's but sharpened, distilled somehow, and what one loved in them all now blazes in fierce tranquility. What is this which needs nothing at all - no dance, no music, no image, no goal yet leaves me incomparably joyous and whole? Confession of a Judge I've pronounced, with the calm of powdery snow, Judgements that seemed to find an even plain. I've sentenced some to their deaths, many nights meeting an untroubled brain. Yet I've been abducted by years Which confine me and feed me fears. My health is failing, I'm filled with doubt. I've hurt my wife innumerable times, Oh never physically, but she's oppressed. I've lied to save myself, and never confessed. I've been aggressive in subtle ways, Smiled in secret when my associates fell. Admiring peers have peppered my days, And honors have watered my pride as well. No one caught me; I had no predatory claw, Kin of wind, too subtle for law. Yet my proclivities are spread throughout the earth. The criminal's but the swollen fruit, Or a too obvious and frenzied birth. I'm respected, lauded by the throng, Yet I was worse than criminals in a way, For I was a hypocrite too, all along. Creative Longing Creative longing in wind blowing along ripples, through reed and rose, its dark face sensed in melting snows, water enamored of no place, its dark joy vibrantly in the ice sculptor's smile, the ice figures melting all the while. Creative longing is when comparing loses hold, striving loses hold, clinging loses hold, intellect loses hold. Unknowing, a lily is yet in bloom, exuberance of perfume. Intellect grasps, plans, always prepares, divides, derides, and multiplies cares. Intelligence is intelligence: it has no plan or thought, the pattern emerging and never sought. Most simple, subtler than air, it does everything and is beyond compare. Intelligence is intelligence. Oozing freshness like sap of spring, glimmering as though a lake were glimmering for the first time, precise and piercing like a bird's cry at twilight, calm and embracing like the night, passionate like green leaves, intelligence perceives. There's no compass in me, no needle's turning, but a wideness, a sky, a yearning that feathers neither for that nor this, drawing dawn's first kiss. Treetops, lake, and dawn are beautiful, and the creative longing goes on...
Bad poetry is bad poetry, no matter who wrote it. The professor is judging the poems from the technical point of view. Every literary piece has some rules, a novel is a novel and not an essay, short stories are short stories and not song lyrics. And poetry is poetry, because of the poetical devices employed. A normal prose sentence divided into lines is not yet a poem. Even a simple poem needs a bit more work than splitting into lines. There are fab poets of colour, but Rupi Kaur is not one of them. You can like Rupi's quotes and tweets but she isn't a great poet, she barely writes poetry, most of her pieces are not poems. Her Instagram blew up because of very controversial photos she posted of women bleeding during her menstrual cycle.
Mine: You Sit, Face Averted Anonymous One, You sit, face averted, I'm in awe of you. The pond's lotuses are your other eyes. The crickets are your speech, the leaves your sighs. The corridor of fussing autumn trees, its space, And twilight jellyfish moon can't exhaust your grace. You have said bitter things when you were ill. Your sayings don't always have eagles' eyes. You sometimes drink, palm resting on the windowsill, With webbed words that won't let yesterday go. But you're still Eve before the fall, in spite of woe. I don't know you at all, though often mind Thinks it does, enamored as it is with memory. I have images of you, your being kind, unkind, Ferocious, a skilled lover, a song in bed, But these are not you right now, these are dead. I can't say who you are, so how can I compare You with others, think you are not quite as rare Or intelligent or beautiful as they? Only ideas, images are at play, And to take them to heart, as though they all Are you, would be Adam's plight after the fall. You're Lying There Still Asleep You're lying there still asleep, the sheets Below your knees, your skin poured smooth as coffee cream, Your curvatures of which hills themselves would dream. Our sheets and pillows are like geese Leaning against each other, and you're the Golden Fleece Now suddenly, as Jason's look alights on your form. Your beauty is the quiet storm That my temple would like to assail. I see your intense whirlpool drawing my spirit in... I don't care if there's something of the Siren in you; We all get destroyed in the end, let it be with you. You twitch slightly, the Golden Fleece may be waking you up; You rub your lips, you smile, you see my temple's up; You stroke it as though a cliff-triangle of cranes Were anticipating paradise in the sky, And I'm like a long-forgotten well that needs A beautiful woman to drink, who boils, who bleeds. What we do, my love, on this bed is not Some desperation, as though the worms outside In our garden were playing violins to our tumultuous tide, Mocking us with a death that's sure to come. What we have and do can but mock the sum Of inhibitions, repressions, anxieties. We will smash to atoms the presumptuous sun. We will look into our depths and be one. Meditation Anonymous One, Sometimes when cranes circle overhead, A person washes dishes with a circling hand. Sometimes when a bear runs and catches a silvery prize, A tennis player finds his perfect stride to the public's cries. Sometimes when a brand new car is first driven out, A bunch of new stars shed their cocoon. Sometimes when green leaves blush with the dawn of June, A virgin overcomes her awkwardness and doubt. Sometimes when it snows in Montreal or Edmonton, The flakes floating down, calm, That means that though the person has never known snow, His mind's calm, as he sits under a palm, While a lake in Vermont evens out to staring trees, And a dragonfly's perched on reed, at her ease. A leaf has fallen and a wind has blown In Africa, and a famous man emits a final moan. It's not quite synchronicity, it's much more: It's perhaps meditation, an awesome whole; It belies individual effort and control. Human Consciousness Anonymous One, Autumn has come and scatters yellow leaves, Yet for all that not one groans or ever grieves. The waves grow colder, begin to freeze... The butterfly by the river, it would seem, Passes on without regret, without a dream. I admire and love all these for whom no better or worse Is, and I grant human consciousness is a curse. But if I could go back before my birth And choose what form I'd take on earth, I'd choose the human, the doubting, the wailing cry, Love strengthened by the knowledge I will die, Prodigious praise given to yellow leaves, To unconscious harmony that never grieves. If our consciousness is a prison cell, It presages too the greatest joy, intercourse With a riveted, humbled seraphic force. If a cocoon be some confining dark, That confinement has also freedom's spark. Autumn's creatures live acceptance, harmonious play, But I'll take our consciousness and its beyond, any day. Those Twelve A piece of May slanting its way, falling on the piano’s worn-out wood, a peace cradling May had this to say: the 79 year old body that you wore writhing and struggling two months before on a hospital bed some twenty blocks away, succumbing to delirium - that's all the doctors could see… They saw and examined the x-ray; they saw twelve tumors in the brain and alleviated the body's pain. They didn't see the spirit's ecstatic storm breaking through, blazing through the confused and delirious human form… The pianist was giving way to twelve angels bearing you away, the winged fruition of twelve notes masterfully handled with your fingers of rain, appearing as twelve tumors in the brain. My Wife Anonymous One, If I turn my eyes from You, lovely words, My thoughts become a screen through which I see: There is no creation, I am my own Enemy, kin of Narcissus, like a painter turned to stone By his painting, as though he tried to fit The kaleidoscopic world into that one image alone. Words, too, are like young women in an office room: I work with them, admire their forms, their dress, But my Wife awaits me, and true happiness. She is Woman without image I cannot leave As I cannot leave myself, or if I try, I shall grow old as Adam, I shall grieve. So when I work, I work afresh, anew Because I feel You inside, only You. I flow in time, though not of time, a joy Which no diverting pleasures would destroy. You lead me not to comfort, but open spaces; Of shelter, security there are no traces. After all the thoughts, images that float During day, in and out of the office room, I return with delight Naked, vulnerable, to the Night.
Mine: Ode To Your Rainbow Road With its coal-colored hat, Proud triangular hat, The yellow stood - dreaming House and sunflower faces. The green met the yellow As you and I, beloved, have met In dreams, the green Dreaming itself as field astir. The good and bad from yellow Were born: you at the kitchen counter Cutting lemons for lemonade, Your humming itself lemonade, You and I reading on the cottage lawn Or quietly picnicking on the lawn As bees hummed in pink-white petals, As the sky sang its honey of poems. A muted yellow, too, was seen: Your face sickly, you lying in bed, That last month a face of muted yellow. The green - field, forest - rang Its bells: your beauty one summer day In the late 80s clothed with a green and white polka dot dress, you leaning against a wooden fence, your leg lifted like a ballerina’s, the classical pianist, too, steeped in the emerald-green of summer power, our conversations themselves that time wide-ranging, golden-green fields astir. Your rainbow road pulled me along Like a kaleidoscope of song. Then the blue house, blue married To white. The porch, the sliding door’s Silhouettes were a single flow, The cries of children submerged In the slice of an orange glow. How much we had, how much we shared Years and years ago. I can’t count the mornings that began With you whipping up some eggs, coaxing the toast onto the plate, Orange juice coaxing my morning into Great. Like one who lives in a house by the beach, Like a swimmer drawn daily to the beach, I awoke to the sounds of your motion, Your cooking, footsteps, the pianist’s fingers, my ocean, A presence, a love clothed in speech. Oh blue married to white, my home, Blue waxing lyrical a past, like foam. And there it was, the twilight, sprawling, encompassing the blue house and me, with its red eye, or some crimson wound, some stain, I felt would never die, or would like flotsam Find me again and again, Ripening, deepening into a net Of your absence, your violet. And yet - What vigor, what vim still went on To color the wanderer’s sorrow, To etch in the stars, angelic powers; How much of you had heightened the indigo. The sadness would go on - but wasn’t Sufficiently ample or wide To overwhelm: you played this rainbow road Like a seven-string guitar from the other side. My delight, my merriment would blaze, Be emblazoned with you for my remaining days, Your absence my sadness and wonder mixed, Your presence flaming in unfamiliar ways.
She writes for insecure young girls looking for love, she writes statement, and she get her support from her playform of following young girls who knows nothong about the real history of work of art
More of mine: Red Cottage Days Simple - The country town store, its smoke-smelling wood, And my father buying groceries there, Then putting them in the car, driving through wood, The stillness embracing cool morning air, Crisscrossing beams under some sort of spell, Shadows concentrated in a trance-like stare, The path with a pebble-crunching tale to tell, Building up our anticipation, excitement, The red cottage hedge glittering a smile, And tall oak too, to the effect it's been a while... Sometimes we would have a barbecue soon, Then some hours later go fishing, Once twilight had shed its cocoon, And the lake had ceased its restless wishing, Our boat slicing through quietness, rocks and stone In the water slowly disappearing Into meditation, all becoming more intensely alone. We would often ride the car to town Once the night forgot itself in fireflies - Ride to the auction house filled with smoke and beer. He liked antique furniture. Our relationship was clear. It was simple, direct, honest, and deep. My strivings were unborn, his half-asleep. He still had hopes for his dreams at forty five. My thoughts were no busy bees yet, I had no hive. Simple words and silences fluttered about us, And no thoughts, no beliefs as yet divided us. Rain Rain scurried, and I followed her to the bank. Rain had a marvelous, flowing raven tress, A beautiful Asian woman who wore blue jeans, Her large brown eyes mazes of expressiveness, Somewhat frantic, desperate, a little sad. I followed her to the bank, but once I got there, The place but harbored still and humid air; An uncomfortable silence was all I had. Orange and green and blue chairs gave me a stare... I caught sight of Rain passing the large bank glass, And I hurried outside; somehow I thought There was an exotic restaurant she sought, And once an Indonesian one came into view, I knew I would enter the restaurant too. Yet once again, when I entered, confusion Had conspired to make silence an intrusion... Apparently, Rain had communed with air Who had given her wings; she flew elsewhere. Sometime later I brushed with her again. Though we didn't speak, something told me She was off toward the train station To acquire tourist information. I wanted her, I wanted her by my side, Yet whenever I entered, I saw her outside, Seeming more beautiful, just out of reach, Her raven tress lifted, a sigh of summer air, Every nonchalant lift adding to my care... I awoke to a charming morning stare... It was about 11 o'clock, and a spring bird Playfully chirped, delivered a piercing sound As if to say I had been mad, absurd. I could smell the grass, the freshness of grass; I could hear a drizzle that only silence weaves, Or rather, a drizzle, like a master pianist, That plays upon a keyboard of leaves. What a silly boy I had been to let care Conjure up restless imaginings, When a Rain, a sweet Rain, was already there... When my girlfriend Rebecca knocked on my door, I carried a heavy head Of drunkenness. Rebecca bought Groceries, she cooked, we then went to bed And made love, the unfurling heavenly gleam Laughing at my imagined want, my dream...
Mine: Mothers Sometimes he had heard shadow-tangle-twilight-stirred- willowed entrance to the wood, crackling twigs on the forest floor a hundred yards or more into the wood. He'd stand there - turn back at last, heading homeward to his fern and fireplace, the smell of cooking and his mother's face, patterns wedded to the past. Lifetimes it seemed it took for what he had heard, shadow-tangle-twilight stirred, willowed entrance to the wood to be heard anew and understood. Fear had kept him turning back, fuelled his failure to recognize within the shadow-tangled twilight, dapple-drizzled wood, his Mother's eyes. Lifetimes it seemed had seen him returning to the other, the comfort and consolation that had arched themselves above his crib - his 2nd mother, the first face he'd seen, taken for mother. The one trusted, turned-to at all events, the one presumed to be his pearl and source - like one possessed, like knowledge mistaken for wisdom - whirlpool of time pulling him into its course, pulling out from him a prolonged, plaintive song, she had been cooking him, preparing him to be devoured by the world all along. Worthy To Be Slain Like a taste of honey, the summer's lake winking at me, you appeared to me. You began as elementary school, middle school, high school, university: you began as a coquettish look emanating from a book; you began as a girl smiling and laughing in high school and college; you winked at me, flirted with me, wearing the dress of knowledge... Encompassing alike ebb and flow, you appeared sometimes, sometimes withdrew. You sometimes caught sight of the scholar's glow, his eyes traveling across the ocean waves and landscapes of that dress. Your own eyes lost their coquettishness, night and silence steeping you in seriousness... You began looking on me as might a woman of stunning beauty, who sifts the chaff from grain, the prospective lover turning her eyes to the strong and worthy one again and again... The stunning lover-to-be sifting chaff from grain now offered her depths to me; I proved worthy enough to be slain. You brought me to a space where you were me, utterly alone, where you wore a necklace of bone, my memories of the beloved dead, memories of all that I had learned.... You brought me to a space in the heart where ice and fire couldn't stand apart, where the noble nurse and perverse were one, where there glowed no particular way, where no distinctions held sway... What thundered within the spirit of your face was life and death in their acutest embrace. You had sifted the chaff from grain; for whatever reason you saw me fit and worthy to be slain. Afraid of Death? Afraid of death? Yet you die more than a thousand times a day. The thought of a father playing with his boy after some seconds, minutes fades away. The thought of a professor before his class after some seconds, minutes fades away. The thought of a hungry husband in bed, the thought of a wanderer wondering where he's going or by what is led, the thought of a responsible man, and more - all these walk in and walk out the door, a thousand times or more are gone before the flowering of each dawn. Afraid of death? Yet this body is a new symphony number seven. What you call death's the possibility of creativity and heaven. The one that fears, trailing fears as well - all these walk in and out the door, however many times are gone before the flowering of each dawn. Both what's beautiful and horrific deemed - these pass by and by, like all things dreamed. How many times has the youth you recall or reimagine feared an ending as though it were the end of him, the end of all? Yet that apprehension or terror long gone, or sadness that seemed to encompass his dawn is now but a faint residue or trace. You may be smiling now at the restless nights that once descended on the youthful face - and smiling at what his fear couldn't see, at all those things feared that never came to be. Afraid of death? Yet in its light is born your wife's, son's, and daughter's beauty, its light turning up the volume of your love, its light love's music and love's poignancy. Afraid? Yet the fear and being aware and looking through the microscope outshine mere optimism, faith or hope. The fear penetrated: sap of every tree seen through the eyes of a child, the spring air. Fear penetrated: shedding of another death that pretends to live, pretends the fear's not there.
This is the problem with academics, you’re making us look bad. Break it down for us, Professor Julian Morrow, your opinion of a subjective art form reigns almighty!
But did u sell out a three story balcony auditorium in Philly last night. Tickets at 100. Plus, this is kinda, ya know, like, um, the female poets lane?
Selling out an auditorium doesnt make you a poet. It makes you marketable. And that is all Kaur is. There are multitudes of modern brilliant female poets who go unrecognized because they have actual talent.
This is ridiculous. Poetry is not catered for only one personality. Of course you were not impressed, bro you probably can't even relate probably lol. It's beyond you, as a white male dude.
But you can't call anything poetry. Her work is verse but it doesn't mean it's poetry all cause she says it is. I am an expert in writing poetry and teach it and I will tell you her work is not poetry, period.
Oh my, nothing about this woman is lazy. What she is doing is so brave, being vulnerable in public. What are you doing? Critising others, but giving nothing of your own vulnerabilities. Sorry, not sorry
Mine: Mixed Feelings 1 The tree's tapping my bedroom window, the rush of exhilarated spring. It's been two years since I saw him in the university's east wing. Love is love. Enough. Enough of taking pride for a trusted advisor or friend. "It falls on that boy to admit his wrong; had he loved you, he would have admitted his wrong, would have called you and tried to make amends." I'm sick of that voice that seemingly seeks my benefit. As a protector, trusted advisor a prison speaks. 2 A swallow in a tree spreads its wings as a young man passes by, the spring sky cloudless, something within him spreading wings... "I've hurt her, not knowing I loved her then, moved toward what I thought were desirable things. I moved further and further from my heart. The hurt done, the shrugging-off, impatient cold became a weapon hurting me twentyfold. I'll phone her today. This is ridiculous. I'd rather let the luminous action take wing, leaving the tree that wears the shadow of regret and heavy cares." 3 The writer frowns as he peruses those two stanzas: there's something false, not quite right, some fluffy romanticism passing for light... He thinks of her whom two years have not washed away, recalling his dubious deeds and the dubious deeds of her own. No - sliver of love or not, he won't phone. Like thousands of others he'll carry regret, like thousands of others he'll let cowardice and doubt and pride carry the day, not quite happy it remains that way. He'll move on, look for affection elsewhere, hoping a suitable partner's care - or some chance encounter, some chance event - will demolish what needs to be and set him free.
This is ridiculous. Poetry is not catered for only one personality. Of course you were not impressed, bro you probably can't even relate probably lol. It's beyond you, as a white male dude.
This is ridiculous. Poetry is not catered for only one personality. Of course you were not impressed, bro you probably can't even relate probably lol. It's beyond you, as a white male dude.
@@rapier1954 funny how you talk about the "truth" and being "objective" in the same paragraph while stating a blatant SUBJECTIVE opinion. I think you need to learn what those words mean first. And your comment sounds abusive so wow what a fucking hypocrite lmao.
This is ridiculous. Poetry is not catered for only one personality. Of course you were not impressed, bro you probably can't even relate probably lol. It's beyond you, as a white male dude.
This is ridiculous. Poetry is not catered for only one personality. Of course you were not impressed, bro you probably can't even relate probably lol. It's beyond you, as a white male dude.
This is ridiculous. Poetry is not catered for only one personality. Of course you were not impressed, bro you probably can't even relate probably lol. It's beyond you, as a white male dude.
If you disagree with his point of view, then write that and back up your opinion with examples, just as he does, instead of insulting him. He is criticizing Kaur's work, not her person. The dichotomy of woman of color versus old white man doesn't apply here. It seems to me to be just a mask for your lack of argument.
This is ridiculous. Poetry is not catered for only one personality. Of course you were not impressed, bro you probably can't even relate probably lol. It's beyond you, as a white male dude.
This is ridiculous. Poetry is not catered for only one personality. Of course you were not impressed, bro you probably can't even relate probably lol. It's beyond you, as a white male dude.
Dude you’re also coming at this from the white western patriarchal view on what “good poetry is”. She is bilingual, female, an immigrant, she writes in the tradition of another culture…. How can you even compare? A class taught by you in college would be a waste of tuition money. I bet you love your Hemingway and his conservative prose. 🤭
That's an interesting way of saying that she sucks at writing poetry.
Ironically, it is your tuition money that has been wasted, as you cannot distinguish great, beautiful poetry from absolute drivel written by a dilettante. You paid money to have your head stuffed with ideology, and this is precisely why you have to resort to ideology to try and prop up her poetry rather than discussing the merits of the work itself. (It doesn't have any merit).
That aside, I read poetry from all kinds of people and cultures. I understand that there differences in form and point of view. One of my favorite poets is Pablo Neruda, by example. But he actually knows how to write poetry that is alive.
But you wouldn't understand a thing like that.
How and Kaur write in the tradition of other cultures if she, self admittedly, doesn’t read.
Being bilingual, female, immigrant, and “writes in the tradition of another culture” really isn’t an excuse to writing shallow, basic, unstructured and later on calling it “poetry”.. poetry. Sorry. Literally background isn’t the subject let alone something compared, (since it’s not an issue to begin with) rather, it’s what’s put into her work. Also the way you say it would be a waste of money to be taught by him, maybe i do understand your point of view.
Poetry shouldn't need context. If you say that her poetry is good BC she's a first- gen female immigrant? You're asking us to punch-down and give her a break - and as a writer in that same class (ignore my pic; that's not me), I'd wager that even Kaur herself wouldn't want you judging her writing based on her sex and race. No one wants that - and no reader should want to read something just to fulfill some quota, unless they're virtue-signaling.
The truth is? There are SUPERB female first gen immigrant writers - Kaur's just not one of them. Also, I suspect she lacks the skills to carry out a full and extraordinary novel like, for example, Jhumpa Lahiri's The Namesake or Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things.
And respectfully? Those longer works take more effort to read, too - not just to write. Give them a try and I think you'll be blown-away by the sheer talent of these authors - also first-gen female immigrants.
My feelings about Kaur's writings are brief: there's an adage that says there's only 2 kinds of poetry - great and awful. And this is the latter. It's adolescent and indulgent. That's the most I could say.
As an aside, if you don't understand why Hemingway is great - or you think the strength of his prose lies in him being an old white guy? You need to give your head a shake. For your sake, I hope your thoughts (and tastes) re-assemble better.
The description of Hemingway as the author of conservative prose is perhaps one of the saddest things I have read in as long as I can remember!
When Rupi Kaur published her first book, she was about 20 years old and inexperienced. When Homebody was published a almost a decade later, she was about 29. I'm disappointed to see her not explore anything new from the first two books or develop more skill at all. Nearly a decade, and no development as a writer at all.
Excellent observation.
I like that you not only criticize but show positive examples of works you find to be more effective.
I agree completely, great review. Poetry can be simple and to the point but it also needs substance, body and an undercurrent of emotion. 200 pages of one liners is a book of quotes not a collection of poetry.
The part that blows my mind is how widely it’s accepted as “great”
you can blame that on the deficiency of the Canadian education system.
@@rapier1954 but her book had been translated to quite a few languages, so it's not only a Canadian phenomenon. Obviously, not everyone thinks it's great but the word of mouth works and she sold a ton of books and people now think that this is poetry. Sad times for real poets.
My position regarding Rupi Kaur's poetry is similar to Martin Scorsese's regarding Marvel movies. There is absolutely nothing wrong with liking her work, that you feel identified with her phrases, that you are moved by her life story. All of that is great. But what she writes is not poetry. Literature is an art that deserves respect, we must respect great writers and value true talent and effort. That does not mean that Rupi has no talent or that she has no merit. Personally, I give her full and complete credit as an influencer, public figure, opinion leader, internet personality and also as a visionary, businesswoman and activist (although I don't really buy her ideas that much)... but I can't give her credit as a poet because that would be disrespectful to poets, her lines are incomplete thoughts and little more than that. I would add that I think it is very audacious of her (in a good sense) to have taken her writings to the field of performance because, once again, she is a visionary woman and has known how to capitalize on the attention she has received, she has known how to jump on the bandwagon of fame and has been very astute (or maybe just intuitive and instinctive) in aligning herself with mainstream themes. Honestly, I'm glad for her success but I'm not happy at all for the decline in quality that all artistic disciplines are experiencing. I hope my appreciation of this author helps some people to broaden their horizons. Blessings to Rupi, by the way.
This is a great comment!
It's not a condemnation of people's response to her work to say that her poetry is not good. I'm all for people buying bodice rippers if that is what they want to read but that doesn't mean that we must validate bodice ripper literature as great (unless it has literary merit).
I know many people who get upset at how little recognition "genre" literature gets in terms of general prizes. It seems like they take it as a personal attack when the literature they have fun reading is not regarded as great. I also remember the grief Bloom got for calling Harry Potter bad children's literature because it was seen as him denying the fact that it "gets kids to read." (of course his opinion would have to be reevaluated now that people hate JKR ;))
@@justaname999 Hi sweetie !!! Thanks for the reply, you have very interesting thoughts, I share your perspective 100%. Rupi is great, I think she deserves everything she has achieved, there is a vast audience for the product she sells and I completely respect that. I think that having created such popular books is something worth applauding, it is not easy to create and produce something so popular and I understand that there are many writers jealous of this woman's success. I see many wonderful things in Rupi, I have noticed that she has a particular talent for networking, she is very beautiful and glamorous, she manages her social networks very well, she is charismatic and has a good instinct for trends. I think the vast majority of artists from different disciplines generally lack business and marketing skills, but Rupi does have this going for her, which is wonderful. What she does not have, according to my point of view and that of many people, is precisely a commitment to the art of literature. Those of us who have read poetry of indisputable quality do not hesitate for a second to affirm that what she writes should not be called poetry, because it is not. It fascinates me that language is so broad that there are words to describe each thing and each type of person. I like to call things by their names and Rupi is a writer but she is not a poet in any way. And that does not mean that she should not be respected, I believe that she deserves all the love, appreciation and respect in the world for having achieved what she has achieved, I do give her credit. I think it's great that there are writers who are more market-oriented business people and others who are more purely literary artists, in fact you can be one or the other and you can also be both at the same time. And Rupi's audience deserves all the respect in the world, being a client of hers and purchasing her books and derivative products has absolutely nothing wrong, what she writes resonates with many people and not all the jealousy of all the envious writers is going to change that. Rupi is someone from whom you can learn a lot if you open your mind to the right extent. Hugs and blessings from Lima-Perú.
There is a market for cheap booze, cheap clothes, cheap cars, cheap homes, and now cheap poetry.
Yes!!
and all of them are costly
book stores are flooding with junk, i am an Indian but i didn't feel that i can buy her books without checking reviews online. thanks for the video, cleared me up.
Although great poetry is diverse, there are some undeniable
features. The first is an absence of cliches/platitudes. If there are
seeming cliches, they're subverted (immersed as they are in strange
contexts), such that they're no longer cliches. The second is surprising
metaphors/images/associations. The third is depth, ambiguity - which
allows for multiple interpretations. If the poem can be entirely
understood after a first glance or reading, it's probably not worth
much. (Note: ambiguity is NOT the same thing as obscurity which in many
cases is a defect.) The fourth is a unique or unmistakable style. If
you read Emily Dickinson, you can see that nobody else writes like her
(assuming you're well read). The fifth is technical and artistic mastery
(or near-mastery): no word is out of place, the enjambment good,
the expressions are concise yet the poem's well developed, and the highest
accomplishments SEEM effortless. (Just consider Robert Frost's "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy
Evening".) If the reader detects labor in the poem, a sense of striving, it may
be a decent work, but far from great. A rich and hypnotic type of music
is certainly desirable, though not in all cases appropriate - depending
on the subject matter. Extremely important is memorable lapidary
language. One mistake a lot of aspiring poets make (including seasoned
academics who've won awards) is that they're far too attached to their
own views/beliefs; there's no distance between what they believe and the
"poetic expression". (Which is why, for example, so many political and
religious poems flounder, devoid of artistic merit.) There's no room
for ambiguity or layers: we simply have the personal view/belief of the
poet expressed. It often winds up sounding like a rant or form of
propaganda. Deadly is the poet's attachment to what he/she considers
"truth" because too much insistence on that winds up sounding dogmatic
and stifles word-play and the imagination. Whatever depth the poet reaches
is done indirectly, suggestively (usually), though direct
statements can be powerful, with good timing.
In considering what is or is not an excellent poem, one needs to make a distinction between likes/dislikes AND good/bad. Oftentimes, people (even critics) conflate the two categories. It's possible for me to like a poem that perhaps is not great, while disliking a far superior one. A possible reason for this is that the former's views/beliefs agree with or confirm my own. The poet may have had good intentions; the thoughts expressed are comforting. If I'm a feminist and the poem empowers women in that way, then I may like the poem - to the point where the line between "like" and "good" becomes blurred or they become synonymous. But they're not so. Just because I'm moved by a poem, it doesn't necessarily follow that it's a good one.
Suppose that I read a lame, pedestrian poem about a cow. If I haven't read a lot of great poetry, I may nonetheless be moved by it because it triggers a nostalgic memory of, say, my favorite cow that I had while growing up on a farm. The poet may have used a lot of cliches; the voice is generic; the poem lacks layers, ambiguity and memorable phrasing. Yet I'm moved by it. So in addition to being moved, one needs to examine how well the poem speaks to an educated sensibility. And even then, because the educated individual has biases, his judgement may still be skewed. If, however, one keeps in mind what I said in the 1st paragraph, one can spot an excellent poem, regardless of personal likes/dislikes.
Rupi's work is generally poor because the poems are often filled with cliches and/or platitudes, the line breaks are random (it's just broken up prose). They're fairly generic and underdeveloped. Most of them are one-dimensional, which is to say that they lack ambiguity; there's no doubleness in the writing, no room for multiple interpretations. The reason that they resonate with many readers is that they confirm the cliches and banalities in their own heads.
You sound like a professional either in reading, writing or both when it comes to poems.
I was seeking guidance for a proper format as I just started writing poems and being a teenager I don't have that ace up my sleeve which I require
So if you don't mind can you please suggest some good poets and poems with examples of the things you stated or just name a few through which I can learn.
I would really appreciate it if you take this in notice as I really want to improve though people around me are not into art or poetry so they can't tell or guide me and if you don't mind I would also like to show you my few works so you can rate me on a scale.
So I hope you won't mind mentoring and showing direction to a passionate young brat who aspire to be a part of the vast world of poems, literature and legacy.
@@sachivrasulpuriya3110Paula Meehan,Emily Dickinson,Sylvia Plath or some you can read
The problem is that people confuse relatability with emotional resonance.
A piece of writing is talking about an experience they can relate to and that feels like it's good "poetry." But it would probably be more suitable for a magazine article. There are well-written articles out there that discuss childhood sexual abuse and the repercussions. The poem you quote at the beginning of the video is essentially like a two-sentence version of those articles that fails to explore the topics in their complexity.
And I do not deny that this can be an entry point into literature. Emotionally connecting with a topic can be the reason to fall in love with reading for many people.
However, that does not mean that the poetry is good. It's instagram captions, essentially, which is why I think the label "instagram poet" is what should be used, possibly even a different word than poet. Nobody wanted to call copy writers poets when advertising got big. These poems are designed to do a particular thing and they do that fairly well: get people who are on social media to like these texts.
I'll add also that your selection of comparison poems was excellent!
As someone speaking from experience, what Kaur's poem does is not helpful in terms of dealing with this kind of trauma. To any person who has experienced any kind of trauma, speaking it out loud is helpful, yes, but it's not adding anything for the reader.
Actually, reading poems like the examples you presented, is much more valuable. It took a long time to have a healthy relationship to sexual experience, and literature that approaches the topic in truly unique ways, can be unbelievably helpful because it takes you out of the "straightforward" discourse and can help you connect with yourself in a new way. Especially when it comes to the shame we heap on ourselves. The Rilke and Neruda are outside of that. They transcend that view and that discourse of shame because they have an immediate connection to the physical and psychological experience and all that is amazing about it.
Had a therapist told me this before I felt it actually work, I would have laughed in their face.
Rupi Kaur's poems, however, do not do that. They echo back a part of the experience without adding much.
Brilliant review. Thanks for taking the time and effort to explain why great poetry shouldn't require context.
I enjoyed your presentation. A thoughtful comparison between Rupi's poem and those of Rilke, Neruda, and Larkin. Through that comparison you were able to show what works and how it works. A good exercise for poets of all levels is to write without naming the subject. Rupi's poem about sex was way too underdeveloped, cliched, and prosaic. By not using the word "sex", one gives oneself room to be suggestive and play with the language. You brought that point across well. One detail, though: being simple, or simplicity, can be divine. What I think you meant was that Rupi's poetry is simplistic, which is different.
I loved the poems you chose to compare to Kaur. I don't care about her work, but your selections blew my mind.
It seems way more a sort of collection of quotes, thoughts... but cliche based. Is good to have someone talking about poetry
Your channels great - subscribed. When I hear "lurched," I think of someone drunk and stumbling, which of course doesn't make the image any less devastating.
Thank you for your review. I'm trying to find something good for my young adult daughter. Everything that is recommended I find they romanticize depression, sexual degeneration, victim hood, etc.
I think I'm just going to stick to a classic and hope she likes it.
That's what I would do!
I recommend her book, and I’m a young woman.. I don’t think you should trust a middle ages Caucasian man on what’s best for your young teenage woman. Rupi has helped me alot
@@malirose7708 That you believe a middle aged Caucasian man cannot give trusted advice is exactly my concern.
@@krystalshepherd4582 yeah, as a female teenager who was 13 when I got ‘the sun and her flowers’
It did not impact me. It’s one liners meant nothing, falling flat. I’m glad that somehow I was able to move past it and find good poetry.
Great idea. There's nothing modern or new about depression or any of the other experiences you describe. They transcend generations and time, and great writing does, too.
if poetry comes with a big enough success suddenly its great, and if you actually like poetry you're wrong for disliking it 🙄
i appreciate your work here. Thank you for taking her work serious enough to actually pay attention to quality. Imo, you actually respect her poetry by not holding back from your opinion.
@PoetryandPrejudice I was wondering have you read any poems by Carol Ann Duffy, if you haven't I would recommend The World's Wife - a book of poems all talking about the figures of mythology, film, literature and so forth but from a woman's perspective its brilliant, funny, insightful, moving and it writes circles around Rupi Kaur's work. I also would like to recommend Rapture from the same poet. It's a book of poetry following the chronology of a romance from its beginning to its inevitable end. When you have read these books is it okay if I ask, can you do a video on them please? Great video all the best 😊👍
I usually use platos cave as an arguement, Rupi Kaur describe the shadow cast on the cave wall of experience, poetry is the thing that can cast it.
Loved this analysis! I was not expecting to hear my favourite poet mentioned in this particular video, but she was - Wisława Szymborska ( she won the Nobel Prize in 1996) and also another good poet from my country - Zbigniew Herbert. And yes, they are very distinct from each other. I will check Pablo Neruda.
Also Pablo makes me never want to write again that’s a sign of a good writer lol
I would really like to know your poetry book or author recommendations :) This was a very illuminating video for me. I used to be a poetry enthusiast but I'm recently trying to drabble back to it.
I haven't posted on this channel in a while, but I am going to start posting regularly on it again this coming week. So, you will be getting plenty of my recommendations!
He did mention Wisława Szymborska, a Nobel Prize-winning poet. She is my favourite too. Her poems are short, fresh and interesting, written in free verse, and also understandable. Classics are, for the most part, too difficult for an average person who didn't study English Literature.
A simpler path:
Acknowledge poetry is the wrong framing for what she's doing.
It's more like proverbs, poetry, musings and meditations all rolled into one.
She herself calls it poetry, so the framing is very appropriate.
@@poetryandprejudice maybe shes's wrong
@@JoshFlorii I agree.
Being a literature student, I’m not a fan at all. She has decent catch on wordplay so that’s the reason people love her poetry (especially who are not into poetry much but Instagram)
No, a lot of people love her poetry because they can RELATE to it. A concept that seems many people on here don't understand. 🤣
@@RPKD88 I'm part of her target audience and I can't relate to it, it's so fake deep.
@@marga8732 You're part of her target audience? Really? What are you?
@@RPKD88 A woman who isn't American and spends a bit too much time on Instagram.
@@marga8732 Are you a Sikh female?
Thank you for critique.
Where r the other parts
I need to make them! I plan on doing so sooner rather than later.
Stumbled across your video because my gf likes Rupi and is attending her show. I’ve remained silent because I simply find her work stale and very unpoetic. I personally believe she built an Instagram fan base simply because poetry is no longer mainstream… in other words, her fans are not poetry readers and would not be able to cite a famous poet of the last 200 years.
Today is Thursday, August 3, 2023, two years after the original posting.
I am a Traditionalist when it comes to my writing and enjoyment of poetry; albeit a
s an amateur, since I am not yet published. I think the generally accepted term for that nowadays is “New Formalism”. New Formalism, Hell! What is that supposed to mean?
Does it imply that there is a gap in the structure of poetry from, say, the time of Rudyard Kipling to now, when many poets in the 20th century wrote using free verse or open form? I can accept that at face value.
However, to me, if a poem does not have meter or rhyme, then it is merely “fractured prose”, and the person writing it is trying to masquerade as a poet and does not realize that they do not have the gift from the Muses. Yes, I am saying that if the Muses existed, they are, in fact, Traditionalists and have always been.
So, I feel quite comfortable with the opinion of Field Marshal Wavell in his well accepted anthology “Other Men’s Flowers”, and in the opinion of Victor David Hanson. At least Her Late Majesty Queen Elizabeth II was thoughtful enough to have her Lady-In-Waiting, Lady Susan Hussey, to sign a thank you letter for the two poems I wrote for her.
A "straghtforward", explanation on how to use the power of poetry to describe and explore a complex, difficult subject. Rupi Kaur's work, if one can call it that, has no power and is not poetry.
The bottom line is that there are great poets out there, a few of whom could reasonably be compared with past masters. Yet they're barely getting any attention. You could select any of the poems posted here and write a 1000 word essay, bringing out the nuances and connotations. "Rain", for example, has about as much condensed complexity as a good short novella.
I hope you won't mind naming few works which fit in the definition that you just stated above.
Because a man with questions come to the one can provide inspiration.
This poor girl can’t catch a break anywhere. No one seems to like her work.
Hey there! When are you going to drop part 2 of this video?
Are you saying it's worse than faculty poetry?
Mine:
Forgiveness
Anonymous One,
There is no forgiveness because remorse and regret
Have no place in what is, can never thrust
Into mystery, like impotent mosquitoes can't pierce through bust
Or ancient block, but at any rate, my Love,
The fishnet's cast down from a vast Above
Onto apples along a road
Curving upward, cast on a hermit singing bird,
And on tender echoes of word furled on word.
Memories, like shadows of a star,
Twine, twist in the space of what we are,
And the fishnet is all about us
Refreshing, invigorating the grass and trees,
Thunder shaking the wilderness to the core
With lips of lightning... We gather our vast store...
One night of attention, and the rest is as You please.
We forgive nothing, but we love giving love,
Or love loves giving without thinking of
Scars and staring at them, scratching anew:
Forgiveness is resentment's residue.
Unadulterated, or Paul's Confession
Like so many nickels and dimes
tossed into songs and rhymes
as into beggars' hats are words of love.
Hypocritical, cheap are those words of love...
I love the songs and rhymes, I love to sing,
love being lost in the woolly, warm dream.
Yet I enter the office or subway,
pass the passersby and a lacklustre theme
of simple tolerance or indifference
slides like a fog, about me many a ghost.
I see bodies, am indifferent to most,
and I feel better when I'm alone.
Like others I'm drawn to romance;
like others I intensely love the few;
like others I'm a child of circumstance:
lover and beloved die or part ways,
love is for a time, love itself decays,
love tethered to self-centred desire.
My love is selfish, select and small,
and loving words seldom mirror the heart.
But respect, tolerance, indifference, dislike
unadulterated play the greater part.
Grey
No - not the grey
of ashes
out of which the Phoenix rises
nor the ashen grey
of a head sometimes
whose eyes glow
winsomely, with wisdom.
Who knows when this grey
crept into your life,
so softly, so imperceptibly, gradually
one couldn't pin it to a single day,
single occurrence or event.
Your daughter, balloons about her,
blows out the candles,
and eats her cake
and your second daughter's on the floor
playing house and with her doll,
and your relatives laugh, they take delight
and your smile sails along.
You have done well for yourself,
a solid man with a caring wife,
and your friends are there...
Yet who knows when this grey
had crept into your life
so softly, so imperceptibly, gradually,
not pinned to a single day.
What has happened to wonder, elation?
Beauty no longer moves you.
What makes the child linger long
you pass quickly with a good word or nod.
You might half-heartedly applaud,
insensitivity behind what's strong.
You're reliable
as a floor of solid oak
and all are pleased with solid oak -
though each day's like every other day
and grey holds sway.
Grey (2)
No - not the grey
of ashes
out of which the Phoenix rises
nor the ashen grey
of a head sometimes
whose eyes glow
winsomely, with wisdom.
Who knows when this grey
crept into your life,
so softly, so imperceptibly, gradually
one couldn't pin it to a single day,
single occurrence or event.
You look at your wife: memory presumes
it knows her, overlooking her blooms.
You're in the bathroom now
and look in the mirror: what does this face
say? The grey about it smells
like over-accumulation, overstimulation...
All those books,
all those movies,
all that knowledge and information,
all those experiences blooming
like mazes of elaboration
you called the fullness of life.
They weren't. You see today
they had conceived numbness and grey.
In simplicity, a still heart
are the fullness of life
and the throbbing vitality of your wife.
The Gift of Radiance
Before I met her
whom radiance delighted in playing,
a radiance rippling as us two,
I was absorbed in my rights and due,
what I deserve, don't deserve, and fair play.
I pursued power, pursued my own way,
cherished an image of my lover-to-be,
how she ought to treat and give to me.
So natural, so common, so widespread
did these thoughts and desires seem...
Yet when that radiance one day
delighted alighted upon my way,
writing herself as a poet's dream,
she revealed my thoughts of rights and due,
what I deserved and didn't and fair play
had been poor substitutes, impoverishment,
limping beggar-like upon their way...
I pursued power before seeing the gate
of radiance, as a being devoid of love
can't help but be drawn to the second rate.
Mine:
The Young Man
Sometimes when she saw someone turn around
The corner, or pass through a restaurant door,
Or when spring with its symphonic score
Of buds performed and surged without a sound,
She felt him, a presence, an absence, and more...
There was no longer grief, but a strange pain,
A part of her that thought the young man hadn't died,
A part that thought she would meet him again.
But she knew, she knew it was fantasy,
Though the fantasy bore a grain of truth.
Certainly the vibrancy, the light of this youth
Looked through the eyes of the passersby,
Looked through the eyes of those
Sitting at the restaurant tables, looked from the sky
When summer was absorbed in poetic blue,
When winter was absorbed in the sharpest prose.
When the young man was alive, they would share...
Presence had reached an exuberant pitch
Of love, adventure - but his absence would stitch
A raiment of wisdom which she would wear,
Being led back to her majestic heart,
Being guided through life - breathing art.
Cote-Des-Neiges Street, Montreal
Softly submerged is Cote-des-Neiges street
in the strangeness of new shops, delight
of couples, in accordion-twilight,
and in absence of stores where we used to go,
a child and his mother 40 years ago.
I feel you gazing at me
through a church tree - from the horizon's
crimson glow, a wound still fresh,
and as a window's rose-struck glaze.
I see you in a thousand other ways,
hear the accordion, voice of you,
the accordion growing faint, fading -
a still more piercing voice of you.
The mind intercedes, a tale ten times told,
offering itself like sagacious gold
to a stubborn, clinging child who half-believes.
But the heart doesn't follow, the heart still grieves.
A Glass of Water Drunk One June Morning
June wears a dress
of a waterfall's roar,
glory gone
galloping,
crashing
against jagged rocks,
splitting apart -
like cognition cracked
in the face of disease.
The water nevertheless
winds its way,
an egret poised within it,
the egret spreading its wings,
soon steeped in the glow
of ever-widening rings.
The water makes its way
to where it's purified...
A boy attending high school
turns on the kitchen tap
and drinks a glass of water.
Refreshment reaps a sigh.
His eyes open wide... Laughter
ripples, the light
of some idea poised within it -
an idea spreading its wings,
in time delighting
in ever-widening rings...
A youthful penchant for winged words
grows and gives birth to other birds ,
the idea never leaving him,
the idea whose different incarnations
suffuses, spirit-like, many nations...
Leaving These Palace Gates
I won't keep you within these palace gates.
You are free to go.
You say a love
compels you below,
back to Earth.
How, child, do you know
you will remember your resolve,
remember all this, remember Me?
Birth does not guarantee
you will follow through
or even receptivity
to those not so benighted
as you may turn out to be.
I won't keep you within these palace gates.
You feel all those still suffering,
still struggling and in need,
and yes, follow, child,
follow love's lead.
And be aware: the realm realms below
can drive you mad, make you coarse,
befoul your seeing, lead you astray
from your original course.
For every fortunate, freakish fish
that escapes the fisherman's net
thousands flap helplessly, are caught,
thousands sent off to the mouths
of conditioning, contamination, rot.
This love like a gong
resounds your resolve. All is blessed
in spite of all; all's for the best.
Love sees the luminous palace, steeped in this;
a healthy one sees health, bliss sees bliss,
a husband or wife in the honeymoon.
I won't keep you within the palace gates.
You carry the sun and moon
and infinitely more. Be aware
that what seems most natural, like air,
maybe your earthly parents, your own mind,
may compound the mud of forgetfulness,
may be enemies to which you grow resigned.
This love like a gong
resounds your resolve. All is blessed
in spite of all; all's for the best.
Be aware, child, before you go,
though conviction boil as passionate blood,
you may come to live on Earth
despondent, sinking deeper in the mud,
catching no whiff of these blessings one and all,
as if this love had never existed at all.
The Whole
Like an airplane's shadow appearing
as the airplane nears the ground,
so does the shadow of separation
emerge upon my waking each morning.
In this shadow are born my vices
and my virtues too: others need
my mercy, my compassion, my aid.
Within this shadow both wars
and a temporary peace are made.
I who assist Ukraine today
will conceive or create hostility,
an enemy some other day.
Yet truth is like someone taking a shower.
In the bathtub stands a single body.
It's not that one arm or leg has power
over the other, or that a hand extends
generosity by washing the chest.
A single undivided body attends
to the whole. And health sees that none is best -
not the brain nor stomach nor lungs nor heart.
The whole suffers along with the part.
Mine:
Mother to Son
For some months I have left you alone,
For I saw that a flower does not grow
The more easily with a rain of stone,
Or insistence such-and-such should not be so.
I would not confine you with my country's past
Nor impose upon you my culture's cast.
Questions about these can feather your sky,
Can weave their arcs in a passionate style,
And you can be sure I'll oblige with a smile.
But if no questions stir and break their shells,
I won't be bothered, I will leave you be.
But I fear there's as yet no clarity
About freedom: It is not desire
Simply to do what your pleasures demand,
To be in the clutch of frivolity's hand.
A cell can be of gold, a comfort as well,
But it remains, after all, a prison cell.
You wanted to paint, you expressed passion,
But you expected the stars at the start.
You thought excitement was the kin of stars,
And so boredom quietly crept in your heart.
If you're to be seized by a sublime space
Within, with the brushstroke being its kiss,
You must not presume upon instant grace,
Nor allow excitements to dominate.
Dodging boredom, you'll never have a rich store.
Each pleasure will leave you emptier than before.
If pleasure and excitement are your nutrition,
You will never grow petals; no sublime space
Will court you, or bestow a master's grace.
March 22nd
The farmer was bending over furrowed land
When the sandy, serpentine trail claimed me.
There was an embrace of irregularities,
A nonchalant dismissal of symmetries.
Imagined perfection had no business being there.
Jagged rocks thrusted, asserted themselves.
There were muddy patches and caked brown leaves.
A few brown leaves crackled on dignified trees.
Broken boughs, fallen pine needles, pine cones,
The coarse bark, the pine trees, crooked and humped,
The hiker, slightly turned, peeing up ahead,
Other types of trees leaning, almost mischievously,
As though by some imagined door, overhearing
A secret or confession of someone they loved -
All received the warmth and affection of March.
Amidst such affection, I sometimes heard
The distant call of a train, the cacophony
Of dogs, the twitter or piercing note of a bird,
Someone thumping down a brow of wooden stairs,
Talking on his cell phone of mundane affairs.
There was no disturbance, but a silence
Cradling March light, a sweet acceptance,
A space, delighted, seeming profoundly amused
At its own various playful expressions,
Not labeling one as higher or lower.
I passed a hillock with straight and crooked tombstones,
Turned, and reached a little secluded spot,
Where small birds - not woodpeckers - were pecking
At dark naked boughs, jaunty, sometimes hopping upward,
Sometimes swinging downward, alighting on other trees.
They continued their business closer and closer
To me, or busy play, whatever it was.
They pecked away on the same tree, moving away
From each other on nearly level, opposite boughs
Until they became eyes of a beautiful, strange face
With dark webs or veins by which the clear sky
Smiled a quiet, mischievous, welcoming smile.
I stayed awhile and the twilight awoke -
Old thoughts would return as surely as night;
Confusion would burn, and that was all right -
And I made my way back, growing hungry.
I'm disappointed you haven't continued this because you have a very interesting way of explanation, tho I understand, I wouldn't want to waste any more time with this book either.
If I'm allowed to be blunt, the big issue with Kaur's texts is that they're either lazy or uncreative.
Poetry has its line-breaks because you can work with verses in ways thats you can't with prose text.
Rupi Kaur does line-breaks so the text is easier to read. That's also why she can't be more expressive. The texts have to be summaries of events, instead of descriptions of them, to be understood by as many people as possible without actually getting uncomfortable.
A lot of people respect Rupi Kaur because she writes about sa and womanhood, but that's the deal:
It's not her texts about these topics that are respectable, just the fact that she's writing about these topics.
And at that point you have failed as a poet
But I've heard she didn't go through those issues herself that she writes about, she just chose them as topics, perhaps that's why she can't write well about those experiences plus, of course, the general lack of craft for writing good poetry. Somebody else mentioned that she admitted she doesn't even read poetry.
Mine:
What Is This?
What is this which needs
no object - no lover or friend,
no dance, no music, no image, no scent
yet is entirely in its element?
What is this which has no face,
wherein achievement, attainment
or any goal has no place,
an incomparable joy without a reason
for being? Myriad people, faces and places
loved and once thought lost are now
restored imageless, as though
their beauty's but sharpened, distilled somehow,
and what one loved in them all
now blazes in fierce tranquility.
What is this which needs nothing at all -
no dance, no music, no image, no goal
yet leaves me incomparably joyous and whole?
Confession of a Judge
I've pronounced, with the calm of powdery snow,
Judgements that seemed to find an even plain.
I've sentenced some to their deaths,
many nights meeting an untroubled brain.
Yet I've been abducted by years
Which confine me and feed me fears.
My health is failing, I'm filled with doubt.
I've hurt my wife innumerable times,
Oh never physically, but she's oppressed.
I've lied to save myself, and never confessed.
I've been aggressive in subtle ways,
Smiled in secret when my associates fell.
Admiring peers have peppered my days,
And honors have watered my pride as well.
No one caught me; I had no predatory claw,
Kin of wind, too subtle for law.
Yet my proclivities are spread throughout the earth.
The criminal's but the swollen fruit,
Or a too obvious and frenzied birth.
I'm respected, lauded by the throng,
Yet I was worse than criminals in a way,
For I was a hypocrite too, all along.
Creative Longing
Creative longing
in wind
blowing
along ripples, through reed and rose,
its dark face
sensed in melting snows,
water enamored of no place,
its dark joy
vibrantly in the ice sculptor's smile,
the ice figures melting all the while.
Creative longing is
when comparing loses hold,
striving loses hold,
clinging loses hold,
intellect loses hold.
Unknowing, a lily is yet in bloom,
exuberance of perfume.
Intellect grasps, plans, always prepares,
divides, derides, and multiplies cares.
Intelligence is intelligence:
it has no plan or thought,
the pattern emerging and never sought.
Most simple, subtler than air,
it does everything and is beyond compare.
Intelligence is intelligence.
Oozing freshness like sap of spring,
glimmering
as though a lake were glimmering
for the first time,
precise and piercing like a bird's cry
at twilight,
calm and embracing like the night,
passionate like green leaves,
intelligence perceives.
There's no compass in me, no needle's turning,
but a wideness, a sky, a yearning
that feathers neither for that nor this,
drawing dawn's first kiss.
Treetops, lake, and dawn
are beautiful,
and the creative longing
goes on...
Wow, Thank you for this review.
You're welcome. More are coming soon!
Love your video!!!
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Bad poetry is bad poetry, no matter who wrote it. The professor is judging the poems from the technical point of view. Every literary piece has some rules, a novel is a novel and not an essay, short stories are short stories and not song lyrics. And poetry is poetry, because of the poetical devices employed. A normal prose sentence divided into lines is not yet a poem. Even a simple poem needs a bit more work than splitting into lines. There are fab poets of colour, but Rupi Kaur is not one of them. You can like Rupi's quotes and tweets but she isn't a great poet, she barely writes poetry, most of her pieces are not poems. Her Instagram blew up because of very controversial photos she posted of women bleeding during her menstrual cycle.
Mine:
You Sit, Face Averted
Anonymous One,
You sit, face averted, I'm in awe of you.
The pond's lotuses are your other eyes.
The crickets are your speech, the leaves your sighs.
The corridor of fussing autumn trees, its space,
And twilight jellyfish moon can't exhaust your grace.
You have said bitter things when you were ill.
Your sayings don't always have eagles' eyes.
You sometimes drink, palm resting on the windowsill,
With webbed words that won't let yesterday go.
But you're still Eve before the fall, in spite of woe.
I don't know you at all, though often mind
Thinks it does, enamored as it is with memory.
I have images of you, your being kind, unkind,
Ferocious, a skilled lover, a song in bed,
But these are not you right now, these are dead.
I can't say who you are, so how can I compare
You with others, think you are not quite as rare
Or intelligent or beautiful as they?
Only ideas, images are at play,
And to take them to heart, as though they all
Are you, would be Adam's plight after the fall.
You're Lying There Still Asleep
You're lying there still asleep, the sheets
Below your knees, your skin poured smooth as coffee cream,
Your curvatures of which hills themselves would dream.
Our sheets and pillows are like geese
Leaning against each other, and you're the Golden Fleece
Now suddenly, as Jason's look alights on your form.
Your beauty is the quiet storm
That my temple would like to assail.
I see your intense whirlpool drawing my spirit in...
I don't care if there's something of the Siren in you;
We all get destroyed in the end, let it be with you.
You twitch slightly, the Golden Fleece may be waking you up;
You rub your lips, you smile, you see my temple's up;
You stroke it as though a cliff-triangle of cranes
Were anticipating paradise in the sky,
And I'm like a long-forgotten well that needs
A beautiful woman to drink, who boils, who bleeds.
What we do, my love, on this bed is not
Some desperation, as though the worms outside
In our garden were playing violins to our tumultuous tide,
Mocking us with a death that's sure to come.
What we have and do can but mock the sum
Of inhibitions, repressions, anxieties.
We will smash to atoms the presumptuous sun.
We will look into our depths and be one.
Meditation
Anonymous One,
Sometimes when cranes circle overhead,
A person washes dishes with a circling hand.
Sometimes when a bear runs and catches a silvery prize,
A tennis player finds his perfect stride to the public's cries.
Sometimes when a brand new car is first driven out,
A bunch of new stars shed their cocoon.
Sometimes when green leaves blush with the dawn of June,
A virgin overcomes her awkwardness and doubt.
Sometimes when it snows in Montreal or Edmonton,
The flakes floating down, calm,
That means that though the person has never known snow,
His mind's calm, as he sits under a palm,
While a lake in Vermont evens out to staring trees,
And a dragonfly's perched on reed, at her ease.
A leaf has fallen and a wind has blown
In Africa, and a famous man emits a final moan.
It's not quite synchronicity, it's much more:
It's perhaps meditation, an awesome whole;
It belies individual effort and control.
Human Consciousness
Anonymous One,
Autumn has come and scatters yellow leaves,
Yet for all that not one groans or ever grieves.
The waves grow colder, begin to freeze...
The butterfly by the river, it would seem,
Passes on without regret, without a dream.
I admire and love all these for whom no better or worse
Is, and I grant human consciousness is a curse.
But if I could go back before my birth
And choose what form I'd take on earth,
I'd choose the human, the doubting, the wailing cry,
Love strengthened by the knowledge I will die,
Prodigious praise given to yellow leaves,
To unconscious harmony that never grieves.
If our consciousness is a prison cell,
It presages too the greatest joy, intercourse
With a riveted, humbled seraphic force.
If a cocoon be some confining dark,
That confinement has also freedom's spark.
Autumn's creatures live acceptance, harmonious play,
But I'll take our consciousness and its beyond, any day.
Those Twelve
A piece of May slanting its way,
falling on the piano’s worn-out wood,
a peace cradling May had this to say:
the 79 year old body that you wore
writhing and struggling two months before
on a hospital bed some twenty blocks away,
succumbing to delirium -
that's all the doctors could see…
They saw and examined the x-ray;
they saw twelve tumors in the brain
and alleviated the body's pain.
They didn't see the spirit's ecstatic storm
breaking through, blazing through
the confused and delirious human form…
The pianist was giving way
to twelve angels bearing you away,
the winged fruition of twelve notes
masterfully handled with your fingers of rain,
appearing as twelve tumors in the brain.
My Wife
Anonymous One,
If I turn my eyes from You, lovely words,
My thoughts become a screen through which I see:
There is no creation, I am my own
Enemy, kin of Narcissus, like a painter turned to stone
By his painting, as though he tried to fit
The kaleidoscopic world into that one image alone.
Words, too, are like young women in an office room:
I work with them, admire their forms, their dress,
But my Wife awaits me, and true happiness.
She is Woman without image I cannot leave
As I cannot leave myself, or if I try,
I shall grow old as Adam, I shall grieve.
So when I work, I work afresh, anew
Because I feel You inside, only You.
I flow in time, though not of time, a joy
Which no diverting pleasures would destroy.
You lead me not to comfort, but open spaces;
Of shelter, security there are no traces.
After all the thoughts, images that float
During day, in and out of the office room,
I return with delight
Naked, vulnerable, to the Night.
Mine:
Ode To Your Rainbow Road
With its coal-colored hat,
Proud triangular hat,
The yellow stood - dreaming
House and sunflower faces.
The green met the yellow
As you and I, beloved, have met
In dreams, the green
Dreaming itself as field astir.
The good and bad from yellow
Were born: you at the kitchen counter
Cutting lemons for lemonade,
Your humming itself lemonade,
You and I reading on the cottage lawn
Or quietly picnicking on the lawn
As bees hummed in pink-white petals,
As the sky sang its honey of poems.
A muted yellow, too, was seen:
Your face sickly, you lying in bed,
That last month a face of muted yellow.
The green - field, forest - rang
Its bells: your beauty one summer day
In the late 80s clothed with
a green and white polka dot dress,
you leaning against a wooden fence,
your leg lifted like a ballerina’s,
the classical pianist, too,
steeped in the emerald-green of summer power,
our conversations themselves that time
wide-ranging, golden-green
fields astir.
Your rainbow road pulled me along
Like a kaleidoscope of song.
Then the blue house, blue married
To white. The porch, the sliding door’s
Silhouettes were a single flow,
The cries of children submerged
In the slice of an orange glow.
How much we had, how much we shared
Years and years ago.
I can’t count the mornings that began
With you whipping up some eggs,
coaxing the toast onto the plate,
Orange juice coaxing my morning into Great.
Like one who lives in a house by the beach,
Like a swimmer drawn daily to the beach,
I awoke to the sounds of your motion,
Your cooking, footsteps, the pianist’s fingers, my ocean,
A presence, a love clothed in speech.
Oh blue married to white, my home,
Blue waxing lyrical a past, like foam.
And there it was, the twilight,
sprawling, encompassing the blue house and me,
with its red eye, or some crimson wound, some stain,
I felt would never die, or would like flotsam
Find me again and again,
Ripening, deepening into a net
Of your absence, your violet. And yet -
What vigor, what vim still went on
To color the wanderer’s sorrow,
To etch in the stars, angelic powers;
How much of you had heightened the indigo.
The sadness would go on - but wasn’t
Sufficiently ample or wide
To overwhelm: you played this rainbow road
Like a seven-string guitar from the other side.
My delight, my merriment would blaze,
Be emblazoned with you for my remaining days,
Your absence my sadness and wonder mixed,
Your presence flaming in unfamiliar ways.
She writes for insecure young girls looking for love, she writes statement, and she get her support from her playform of following young girls who knows nothong about the real history of work of art
More of mine:
Red Cottage Days
Simple -
The country town store, its smoke-smelling wood,
And my father buying groceries there,
Then putting them in the car, driving through wood,
The stillness embracing cool morning air,
Crisscrossing beams under some sort of spell,
Shadows concentrated in a trance-like stare,
The path with a pebble-crunching tale to tell,
Building up our anticipation, excitement,
The red cottage hedge glittering a smile,
And tall oak too, to the effect it's been a while...
Sometimes we would have a barbecue soon,
Then some hours later go fishing,
Once twilight had shed its cocoon,
And the lake had ceased its restless wishing,
Our boat slicing through quietness, rocks and stone
In the water slowly disappearing
Into meditation, all becoming more intensely alone.
We would often ride the car to town
Once the night forgot itself in fireflies -
Ride to the auction house filled with smoke and beer.
He liked antique furniture. Our relationship was clear.
It was simple, direct, honest, and deep.
My strivings were unborn, his half-asleep.
He still had hopes for his dreams at forty five.
My thoughts were no busy bees yet, I had no hive.
Simple words and silences fluttered about us,
And no thoughts, no beliefs as yet divided us.
Rain
Rain scurried, and I followed her to the bank.
Rain had a marvelous, flowing raven tress,
A beautiful Asian woman who wore blue jeans,
Her large brown eyes mazes of expressiveness,
Somewhat frantic, desperate, a little sad.
I followed her to the bank, but once I got there,
The place but harbored still and humid air;
An uncomfortable silence was all I had.
Orange and green and blue chairs gave me a stare...
I caught sight of Rain passing the large bank glass,
And I hurried outside; somehow I thought
There was an exotic restaurant she sought,
And once an Indonesian one came into view,
I knew I would enter the restaurant too.
Yet once again, when I entered, confusion
Had conspired to make silence an intrusion...
Apparently, Rain had communed with air
Who had given her wings; she flew elsewhere.
Sometime later I brushed with her again.
Though we didn't speak, something told me
She was off toward the train station
To acquire tourist information.
I wanted her, I wanted her by my side,
Yet whenever I entered, I saw her outside,
Seeming more beautiful, just out of reach,
Her raven tress lifted, a sigh of summer air,
Every nonchalant lift adding to my care...
I awoke to a charming morning stare...
It was about 11 o'clock, and a spring bird
Playfully chirped, delivered a piercing sound
As if to say I had been mad, absurd.
I could smell the grass, the freshness of grass;
I could hear a drizzle that only silence weaves,
Or rather, a drizzle, like a master pianist,
That plays upon a keyboard of leaves.
What a silly boy I had been to let care
Conjure up restless imaginings,
When a Rain, a sweet Rain, was already there...
When my girlfriend Rebecca knocked on my door, I carried a heavy head
Of drunkenness. Rebecca bought
Groceries, she cooked, we then went to bed
And made love, the unfurling heavenly gleam
Laughing at my imagined want, my dream...
Mine:
Mothers
Sometimes he had heard
shadow-tangle-twilight-stirred-
willowed entrance to the wood,
crackling twigs on the forest floor
a hundred yards or more into the wood.
He'd stand there - turn back at last,
heading homeward to his fern and fireplace,
the smell of cooking and his mother's face,
patterns wedded to the past.
Lifetimes it seemed
it took for what he had heard,
shadow-tangle-twilight stirred,
willowed entrance to the wood
to be heard anew and understood.
Fear had kept him turning back,
fuelled his failure to recognize
within the shadow-tangled twilight,
dapple-drizzled wood, his Mother's eyes.
Lifetimes it seemed
had seen him returning to the other,
the comfort and consolation that had arched
themselves above his crib - his 2nd mother,
the first face he'd seen, taken for mother.
The one trusted, turned-to at all events,
the one presumed to be his pearl and source -
like one possessed, like knowledge mistaken for wisdom -
whirlpool of time pulling him into its course,
pulling out from him a prolonged, plaintive song,
she had been cooking him, preparing him
to be devoured by the world all along.
Worthy To Be Slain
Like a taste of honey,
the summer's lake
winking at me,
you appeared to me.
You began
as elementary school,
middle school,
high school,
university:
you began as a coquettish look
emanating from a book;
you began as a girl smiling and laughing
in high school and college;
you winked at me, flirted with me,
wearing the dress of knowledge...
Encompassing alike ebb and flow,
you appeared sometimes, sometimes withdrew.
You sometimes caught sight of the scholar's glow,
his eyes traveling across
the ocean waves and landscapes of that dress.
Your own eyes lost their coquettishness,
night and silence steeping you in seriousness...
You began looking on me as might a woman
of stunning beauty, who sifts the chaff from grain,
the prospective lover turning her eyes
to the strong and worthy one again and again...
The stunning lover-to-be sifting chaff from grain
now offered her depths to me;
I proved worthy enough to be slain.
You brought me to a space
where you were me, utterly alone,
where you wore a necklace of bone,
my memories of the beloved dead,
memories of all that I had learned....
You brought me to a space in the heart
where ice and fire couldn't stand apart,
where the noble nurse and perverse were one,
where there glowed no particular way,
where no distinctions held sway...
What thundered within the spirit of your face
was life and death in their acutest embrace.
You had sifted the chaff from grain;
for whatever reason you saw me fit
and worthy to be slain.
Afraid of Death?
Afraid of death? Yet you die
more than a thousand times a day.
The thought of a father playing with his boy
after some seconds, minutes fades away.
The thought of a professor before his class
after some seconds, minutes fades away.
The thought of a hungry husband in bed,
the thought of a wanderer wondering
where he's going or by what is led,
the thought of a responsible man, and more -
all these walk in and walk out the door,
a thousand times or more are gone
before the flowering of each dawn.
Afraid of death? Yet this body
is a new symphony number seven.
What you call death's the possibility
of creativity and heaven.
The one that fears, trailing fears as well -
all these walk in and out the door,
however many times are gone
before the flowering of each dawn.
Both what's beautiful and horrific deemed -
these pass by and by, like all things dreamed.
How many times has the youth you recall
or reimagine feared an ending as though
it were the end of him, the end of all?
Yet that apprehension or terror long gone,
or sadness that seemed to encompass his dawn
is now but a faint residue or trace.
You may be smiling now at the restless nights
that once descended on the youthful face -
and smiling at what his fear couldn't see,
at all those things feared that never came to be.
Afraid of death? Yet in its light
is born your wife's, son's, and daughter's beauty,
its light turning up the volume of your love,
its light love's music and love's poignancy.
Afraid? Yet the fear and being aware
and looking through the microscope
outshine mere optimism, faith or hope.
The fear penetrated: sap of every tree
seen through the eyes of a child, the spring air.
Fear penetrated: shedding of another death
that pretends to live, pretends the fear's not there.
She plagiarized Nayyirah Waheed.
Give evidence before making outlandish claims because the original idiot poster will heart anything against her.
This is the problem with academics, you’re making us look bad. Break it down for us, Professor Julian Morrow, your opinion of a subjective art form reigns almighty!
Can't you be quiet instead of taking your left foot out of your mouth and putting your right foot in?
@@rapier1954 I’ve never heard that idiom before
But did u sell out a three story balcony auditorium in Philly last night. Tickets at 100. Plus, this is kinda, ya know, like, um, the female poets lane?
Selling out an auditorium doesnt make you a poet. It makes you marketable. And that is all Kaur is. There are multitudes of modern brilliant female poets who go unrecognized because they have actual talent.
This is ridiculous. Poetry is not catered for only one personality. Of course you were not impressed, bro you probably can't even relate probably lol. It's beyond you, as a white male dude.
I am sure that is the issue, that Kaur's poetry is so beyond my understanding because I am a white male.
But you can't call anything poetry. Her work is verse but it doesn't mean it's poetry all cause she says it is. I am an expert in writing poetry and teach it and I will tell you her work is not poetry, period.
@@ladybird491 I am an English professor, and I agree with you that her work isn't "poetry" at all.
Hi there, white female who has been personally affected by many of the themes that Kaur tries to cover-- it still sucks and it's still unrelatable.
@@SolsGarage Hahahahahahaha
Oh my, nothing about this woman is lazy. What she is doing is so brave, being vulnerable in public. What are you doing? Critising others, but giving nothing of your own vulnerabilities. Sorry, not sorry
Mine:
Mixed Feelings
1
The tree's tapping my bedroom window,
the rush of exhilarated spring.
It's been two years since I saw him
in the university's east wing.
Love is love. Enough. Enough of taking
pride for a trusted advisor or friend.
"It falls on that boy to admit his wrong;
had he loved you, he would have admitted his wrong,
would have called you and tried to make amends."
I'm sick of that voice that seemingly seeks
my benefit. As a protector, trusted advisor
a prison speaks.
2
A swallow in a tree spreads its wings
as a young man passes by, the spring sky
cloudless, something within him spreading wings...
"I've hurt her, not knowing I loved her then,
moved toward what I thought were desirable things.
I moved further and further from my heart.
The hurt done, the shrugging-off, impatient cold
became a weapon hurting me twentyfold.
I'll phone her today. This is ridiculous.
I'd rather let the luminous
action take wing, leaving the tree that wears
the shadow of regret and heavy cares."
3
The writer frowns as he peruses those two
stanzas: there's something false, not quite right,
some fluffy romanticism passing for light...
He thinks of her whom two years have not
washed away, recalling his dubious deeds
and the dubious deeds of her own.
No - sliver of love or not, he won't phone.
Like thousands of others he'll carry regret,
like thousands of others he'll let
cowardice and doubt and pride carry the day,
not quite happy it remains that way.
He'll move on, look for affection elsewhere,
hoping a suitable partner's care -
or some chance encounter, some chance event -
will demolish what needs to be
and set him free.
This is ridiculous. Poetry is not catered for only one personality. Of course you were not impressed, bro you probably can't even relate probably lol. It's beyond you, as a white male dude.
This is ridiculous. Poetry is not catered for only one personality. Of course you were not impressed, bro you probably can't even relate probably lol. It's beyond you, as a white male dude.
Sorry, you can't handle the truth and resort to abuse. Try countering with some objective analysis of your own or are you even capable of that?
@@rapier1954 funny how you talk about the "truth" and being "objective" in the same paragraph while stating a blatant SUBJECTIVE opinion. I think you need to learn what those words mean first. And your comment sounds abusive so wow what a fucking hypocrite lmao.
This is ridiculous. Poetry is not catered for only one personality. Of course you were not impressed, bro you probably can't even relate probably lol. It's beyond you, as a white male dude.
This is ridiculous. Poetry is not catered for only one personality. Of course you were not impressed, bro you probably can't even relate probably lol. It's beyond you, as a white male dude.
This is ridiculous. Poetry is not catered for only one personality. Of course you were not impressed, bro you probably can't even relate probably lol. It's beyond you, as a white male dude.
If you disagree with his point of view, then write that and back up your opinion with examples, just as he does, instead of insulting him. He is criticizing Kaur's work, not her person. The dichotomy of woman of color versus old white man doesn't apply here. It seems to me to be just a mask for your lack of argument.
This is ridiculous. Poetry is not catered for only one personality. Of course you were not impressed, bro you probably can't even relate probably lol. It's beyond you, as a white male dude.
This is ridiculous. Poetry is not catered for only one personality. Of course you were not impressed, bro you probably can't even relate probably lol. It's beyond you, as a white male dude.