A disclaimer : if you enjoy these books or feel they have done something for you, that's good. My issue with these books and this genre is not with the readers and consumers but rather the authors and publishers taking advantage of a growing interest in poetry to put out this crap and act like it's revolutionary. Any one reader can take away from these books what they want to and that's the beauty of it, but looking at from the bigger picture, I think that this type of 'poetry' is, for lack of a better word, problematic.
Poetry is art. It's writing. Putting norms and rules into everything takes away the main aspect. If it doesn't rhyme or isn't long, it can still be poetry. It has a deeper meaning, is beautifully written. I think it does the job.
If you agree that these poems can be enjoyed by some people, what’s with saying that their favourite poems are “bad”? If some people can take something from them then they can’t be “bad”.
@@ainewatanabemccaul9510 i see your point, but I stand by saying that the poems are objectively bad and represent a bad trend within the genre. how people feel about them doesn't change that bit of it. also I needed a clickbait title lol
@@StephJLWReads Fair enough, and yeah I agree that some poems fall short in technical aspects, I write poems as well and try to avoid generic or cliche wordings
So true! They're not just incomplete thoughts, they're incomplete poems too. No thought goes into them whatsoever. They're just pandering, shallow shadows of poetry.
@Sarah Marie Most of them are complete thoughts. Like any poem, most of them convey a certain feeling, situation, story, etc. in a short-form genre. It’s weird to say they’re “incomplete”
@@MrUndersolo being scared of people making pretentious 20 minute videos criticizing your work is halfway to being a poet? I’m scared of what you think is the other half lmao. If everyone thought this way, then nothing would get published.
My partner loves "milk & honey", and they sometimes even write poems themselves, and I think they like it because it's easy. It's easy to understand and it's easy to get inspired by to write something yourself - and that's okay. It's just a shame when the community starts thinking that's all that poetry is. This genre is everywhere and that obviously forms the opinion on what poetry is, and the longer, complex ones become old and boring. :(
I think Kaur's type of poetry becomes old very quickly. Nothing in that work that I actually liked stuck to me in a long thought provoking way or left me with a long term emotional resonance the way actual poetry does (not insta-poetry).
@@valvihk3649 that's also something I noticed. It feels like a quick read and then you're off - but it's my experience, I don't know if the book changed lives for other people yk
But why do we have to dictate what poetry has to be??? Art is free and different. I love Bukowski AND Dickinson AND Neruda AND Byron AND Shelley AND Pasolini... 🤷🏻
@@mermaidmoon2254 it's not what it HAS to be, of course you're free to enjoy poetry any way you like, I read another collecting of Rupi Kaur's and I actually liked it a lot! It's just a bit of a shame that a lot of this type of poetry is sometimes lacking depth. But then again, not everything needs to be deep and thought provoking because it's completely free for everyone to write what and how they want. Merely a preference thing I suppose
@I am me • 25y ago petty ass. people don't NEED trigger warnings, but it's a courtesy. warning someone that your work may include traumatic topics is simply the right thing to do.
Real poets are having a hard time getting published these days due to this shitty fad! Some who are truly good with never get heard due to discouragement from rejection being published due to this stupid tread and it's money potential because people aren't deep enough to read real poetry these days!
Exactly. I'm no Walt Whitman but I was knocked back from this competition because my 'feminist themes were too vague' and it makes me want to invent a unisex pen name so I won't be beholden to this cheap shit and I'm sure the irony of that isn't lost on anyone
That's a big problem yes. It's wasteful and it is disrespectful and essentially anti-working class as it doesn't provide value for what you spend out of what you earn.
it's actually a shame to actual poets, they've taken the whole aspect of poetry and made some weird simplified sentence that will get them like 100k-more likes on Instagram whilst other poets get no recognition at all .
Yeah this isn’t even the slightest bit true… Our government has an appointed port official. There are many publishers who only publish “Traditional” poetry. It’s okay to upset about how the genre has overtaken the mainstream, but let’s not spout nonsense.
@I am me • 25y ago I love romantic poets, I love Dickinson and I’m a massive Tolkien nerd. But I would pick up a collection by Ocean Vuong or Billy Collins before picking up Byron or Shakespeare
@@brycehatfield4103 yeah this was written a while ago , and personally i adore ocean vuongs poetry and occasionally i'll read some rupi kaur , the poetry i am talking about though is mostly the instagram 2 liners , sorry for any offence
this was so needed omg!!! it's honestly insulting to real poets. i hate the trend of "instagram poetry" where people will just write a sentence and chop it into a few awkward sections and sell it because they have a platform. but i hadn't heard of these gross ones by men, that's literally so misogynistic and demeaning. i'm really glad we're talking about this, so thank you. also you're really funny and articulate, i really liked this video. subscribed 🤗
Hey! So “real poetry” is so subjective, and a lot of people take instapoetry out of context. It’s definitely a genre, and instapoets are “real” poets. Just because you don’t like something doesn’t make it any less real.
@@brycehatfield4103 It's not subjective. writing incomplete sentences with incomplete thoughts isn't poetry it's alzheimer's. And the problem we have with it is not that it is "real" but that it is validated over poetry that actually does what poetry is supposed to do. It is supposed to express an idea using literary techniques. So when I see the word "butterfly" written 5x and that poem is in a magazine, I'm wondering how something that means nothing and says nothing can be considered art. If I write the words "communist manifesto" on canvas with an X through it, does that make me intelligent and deep and worthy of praise? No, but I might be laundering money which is what I think these books were created to do. Just like modern art. it's the only explanation that isn't depressing.
@@NC-dw1ir Hey, kiddo, let’s not compare poetry we don’t like to people with Alzheimer’s, okay? It doesn’t make any sense and it’s irrational. Instapoetry is a short-form, direct, poetry subgenre that people have been writing for decades. Dickinson wrote short, titleless poems in the 1800s and Billy Collins, former poet laureate, writes blunt poems today. Just because you don’t like it doesn’t make it “Alzheimer’s”, that’s so wild
It's definetly interesting to see the evolution of what is considered poetry as it becomes more popularized, especially on social media. The "yep, that is a sentence" sentiment is one I share frequently. Can't wait for your next video!
It’s hard because there are a lot of classic poems that are only a sentence long. I get that instapoetry can seem frustrating, but where do we draw the line?
@@nobodygnomes The answer is, sadly, people draw the line when they don’t like something. There are many instapoets that use rhyme and rhythm in a way not even Rupi Kaur does (that’s not to say she isn’t a poet because of that, she absolutely is), but people dismiss them just because of the genre. But because the criteria is so vague, you can very easily justify Emily Dickinson as an instapoet; short poems, no titles, quick and easy to understand. The line is arbitrary, and most people who say it’s not poetry just simply don’t like it and don’t want it to be poetry
I looked up “modern poets who are actually good” and got this instead. Let me say I’m not disappointed. Your opinions aren’t only spot on but you’re really well spoken and hilarious. You gained a new follower
Kaur on the thumbnail made me click LIKE before watching this video. Putting words in some random spaces doesn’t mean that it is, in fact, a poetry. Unless
It blew my mind what people consider now poetry. This insta poets or tumbler poets or how they call themselves or people call them. Maybe the attention spam is so short now that people find it hard to read something longer or subtle.
@Angel Nunn Depends on what you want! Courtney Peppernell is wonderful if you want a short, but lyrical, style of poetry, Billy Collins is very accessible and casual and fun, and of course there are some good classics, like Emily Dickinson, but those can often be hard to read
i started to write (and read) poetry recently and i was scared my poems were really bad...but ngl this made me feel better about myself LMAO some of these are so ???😭😭😭😭 (great video btw ur so funny!!)
Lol same here, I also started writing recently. Sometimes I feel like my writing is kinda cliche and get bit disappointed on myself. And This does make me feel better about myself, at least little bit..... Lol
Use that self-doubt to make you a better writer. It's good that you question your work and if you look back on your older poems and wince, that's good too. It means you are growing as an artist.
@@tanuprit385 I think some cliche's in writing are warranted considering there are only so many human experiences we can experience, you know? But what makes it unique is your take. I'm sure no poet is worse than those three, well except Kaur.
@@NC-dw1ir aw, thank you for your kind words :] i'm still not really confident about my poetry skills but i am trying to get better, so i really appreciate your comment
@@menofculture5285 wow i think thats one of the craziest things someone has ever said to me,,,,,, thank you 😭 although i’d like to be more familiar with classic english literature
OMG. I've been saying this for years. THESE AREN'T POEMS. I hate this trend so much - it's just people saying things...completely unpoetically. It fills me with literary rage lol. Thank you for making this 😆
this video was so satisfying to watch because i couldn't express my distaste of insta poetry as bluntly as i wanted to. My teacher made us read Rupi Kaur as amazing show-stopping content and I was in awe, I should have kept my tweets from high school if i had known bad poetry would be the new art
For some ungodly reason, this video came up after I had searched TH-cam for "Sylvia Plath Poetry Reading", so I was getting primed to deliver the intellectual equivalent of "u wot mate?" and what do I get instead? Funny and accurate criticism of the sort of meretricious pseudo-poetry whose success in recent days has always been baffling to me. I really enjoyed going back and watching your video on "the princess saves herself in this one" and seeing the timeline of how you start off with very mild-mannered and reserved criticism and gradually get more and more confident and scathing in your condemnation, but without ever being unreasonable or unfair. Bonus points for mentioning Morning In The Burned House as an example of doing well what some of these writers do for no good reason, I've always loved that poem. It's always gratifying to see a person with a discerning mind. You've also helped to sell me on reading Jane Eyre and watching Shadow and Bone, so thanks for that. Good stuff.
lmao, I also gave up on finishing "The Witch doesn't burn in this one". It is just too tacky. At first I was giving it a chance considering it perhaps as a sort of raw, almost spontaneous expression of emotions around trauma and so on. However, after a third of the book it became quite clear that she didn't have any new ideas, simply rehashing the same thing over and over again. I think the editor might have just given up as well, thinking "fuck it, not going to bother with this one..." You could argue that some of the poetry should be considered visual art, rather than actual poetry. Some of them may even be considered some post-modern take on dadaism. Still, it all comes across as lazy and uninspired.
@@StephJLWReads As you pointed out in your previous video, in Lovelace's poetry the shapes don't really support the text in any particular way. In dadaism, you have for example these sound poems (e.g. Hugo Ball). And I recently saw a photo of a poem "river/sandbank" by Seiichi Niikuni on a wall in Leiden (they have many poems as murals around the city).
I appreciate these books on some level because they have the ability to be “gateway poetry” for people who don’t find most poetry palatable, but you’re correct in acknowledging that these are just plain bad lol
Why in the world would a man try and write about what a woman would feel during the devil's tango with herself? Why why why? You don't understand that, buddy!
Not gonna lie, I've been wanting to send you my first book of free verse for the purpose of having one of your brutally honest reviews. I just LOVE your delivery so much! LOL It'll be out soon, I'm waiting for Amazon to review it for filth and approve it.
This was refreshing in that it summarized the experience some us feel who try really hard with writing poetry, then see the crap thays on Instagram and selling well and want to give up. A proper dismantling of terrible collections!
my mother language is portuguese and I love to read and write poetry and also reading general books in english. I was so excited to try poetry in english too but I was soooo disappointed with the hyped and modern authors. most of them feel like motivational quotes from that post grandmas put on facebook. like where’s the depth? where’s the enigma or thought the reader has to figure and think about? it makes me sad how my mind was blank reading these
Michael Faudet's poems sound like they would be the headline or like splash of the profile of one of those guys with a cockatar and no other pictures on Fetlife. But of course, he's so much a "dom" or a "bull". LAWL.
Micheal was the WORST. I read his book once and never picked it up again. Just what.... disguising. I thought r.h sin was basic and I haven’t even finished Amanda’s Lovelace book because It just didn’t keep my attention.
"I'm sure they are perfectly pleasant, wonderful people to be around. I don't know them. All I know is their work, and I hate their work." I'm sorry but that phrase is so funny, I like it too much LMAOO
Just saw your rant on Lovelace's first collection before this one. And I just love this thought of some of your comments on the back of these books: "I just don't vibe with that." "uh that's disgusting." "It's so painfully obvious: it's just your kink buddy." and* "It's the saviour complex for me." *not "&" for the sake of your sanity
That's because they haven't -- you are correct. You can tell the modern poets that have read widely, and those that haven't read widely at all, if at all.
Also your take on modern day flash poetry is refreshing and spot on from someone your age. It's great to see this genre being called out for what it truly is, mass produced, easily digestible garbage as you said. I cannot thank you enough for posting this
Couldn't agree more with everything you said in this video. These books give poetry a bad name yet somehow they are the most popular poetry books in the world atm. The only reason these are popular is because they are easy to digest, people have short attention spans and they have great marketing. It would be lovely to walk into a book store one day and find something of substance in the poetry section. There are talented poets out there but they are being robbed of the attention they deserve.
It is profoundly relieving to discover your page. I am currently writing an essay on the modern poetic form, where I attempt to argue respectfully the hijacking that "free verse" has had on modern poetry. More specifically on the literary magazines and publishers. I'm a huge fan of Chris Bursk and alot of other "free verse" poets. But it seems to me there's almost a prejudice against rhyme
Interesting. I think the prejudice is against bad rhyme. Good rhyme will always have a place. Submit to contests looking for rhyme. Research editors and publications. Who likes rhyme? Send them there. I don't think free verse has hijacked modern poetry, as much as instapoetry has hijacked free verse.
Please make more poetry videos! Not only are they hilarious, but also super useful - I am trying to improve my own poetry and I feel like I learned from your criticisms of other people's bad poetry 😅. I would love to hear you give some examples of poets/poems that you do like as well. Anyway, thank you for making cool stuff:)
Kathleen Raine highlighted the issue with this type of poetry in her incredible literary framework she called 'the inner journey of the poet', she essentially said that poetry is the purest way we can communicate the soul (in a very literal sense: she was very spiritual I believe) but unfortunately we have become content with poetry being 'self-expressive'. good poetry should go beyond that, it should touch upon the universal.
AN ODE TO THE MOON I am roaming the emptiness of the desert. The moon's rotund fullness hangs in the void of the heavens, Mid-way to the unseen horizon in the East. The moon threatens to plummet into the desert floor, Yet it maintains its oversight above its dominion. The dulcet tones of the moon's milky-white soothe me, But it is not my body they charm, They pierce the ramparts to an unfathomable chamber in the bedrock of my soul. And I feel a joy not confined to the borders of my flesh. It is a joy emanating from deep within me, And yet it belongs to us all. And then I ask: Why is it that the sun's strong light exposes my body, Yet the moon's milky-white exposes my soul? I am peeking between two almost kissing cliffs. I still my mind and then I see the snail's pace of the moon, As it peeks at me behind the West cliff on its mission across the sky. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the moon's sliver advances past the cliff's edge, And widens until it once more appears in all its rotund glory, As it falls to the other side. When the moon's edge reaches the other cliff it hides again, Until once more I only see its thin sliver, And then it is beyond my sight. When the moon reveals this subtle dance to mine own eyes, I feel an intimacy with it that no book can offer, No teacher can teach. On this night, the crescent moon floods the recesses of my soul with its pale milky glow, And a mystical silence envelops the desert's void. On other nights, in other places, the silence would be dulled by a crying baby, while her mother sings a lullaby, Or in the desert by the plaintive shriek of an anonymous wind, As it hurtles across the desert floor, To lands beyond horizon's reach. But on this night, the silence is absolute, And it comforts me like a blanket comforts a child.
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. First Love (1) Long buried in the drawer the photograph looked at me as a dimly lit chink of a door. Behind my father my first love stood, violin in hand, her freshness all aglow on the stage of teenagehood. An old song softly made its way, a haunting of harmonica and piano calling to mind her standing one summer day on a balcony, then a balcony with snow. She married years later, while my father was swept away by an alien tide so that during my visits once a year I heard his drunken laughter masking fear, great artistic promise not quite meeting the luminous, long-remembered career. The photo went back in the drawer. The bedroom curtain tapped and stirred. Dandelion seeds were scattered, blown away as the summer light with the voice of a bird, a faint afternoon perfume, stood aglow opening a strange and familiar window to one moment long before the girl - when peace and joy were themselves the glow of what didn't care to possess, achieve, or know. 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. While You Still Have Your Youth You are young, you are strong, and health is still your friend. Will you employ your youthful years, heaping up strife and shedding tears, in the pursuit of perishable things? Go on, look to your left and right and see just what struggles or sufferings people endure for what passes away. Yet matters of the spirit, the essential, seldom take up even a single day. Employ the same vigor, intensity in the service of finding Me without holding to any picture of Me, and perishable things, all that you need, will come without enslaving you; like faithful servants they'll follow you. Don't waste your youth trying to gain the good opinion of others, respect, success, like one who treats this shifting world of foam as though it were his foundation or home. Cry for Me as one in the wilderness, give yourself to the journey back to Me. Purify yourself - and the death you mistook for life will fall away, you will see Me. 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. A More Powerful Love No longer will I cook for you or sit beside you. You will never call me again from overseas or look into my face. Nor will wisdom flame in the familiar fireplace of conversation. Nor will the ship moor to the dock it has known for 20 years. I can come to you as anxiety when you're too lethargic, lax, and the time has come to act. I can come to you as loneliness to wake you to your selfishness, to wake you to the fact generosity may burn the brighter. Where once I fed and clothed the child, made the bed and cleaned the room of the child, I can now illuminate your solitude, weave the melodies of circumstance pleasing or grating, deepening your art, be the silence savored of a wanderer who has found a home without stone or walls. Sometimes, no friends around, you'll pine. Sometimes, your friends will seem far away, distance smelling of a different sphere, and you'll doubt yourself, you may wonder whether you're going mad and you've deserved the misfortune, fierce forces pulling you back into old courses. Like a tough teacher who loves a student, I'll show you what you would not have wished upon yourself. I may obstruct, frustrate, and terrify you - but, love, I'll be your liberation too.
ok, first of, this is so underrated, I really enjoyed reading your poetry, the first one where youth is hidden in the eyes of random men, I died there, pls, I loved it, and last one, of a old boy being a vegetable stored and examined on papers and how, once he had a spirit, and now, how it's wandering endlessly in the soulless hospital.. you seriously deserve more people to read your poetry, I recommend maybe starting a social media account, or submit it to a magazine, it would get the attention it deserves, and I hope you write more and more
@@srinivasanm3601 I appreciate the support. Thanks. One professional reviewer has called me one of Canada's best poets. So my work has not gone altogether unnoticed. If you're interested you can purchase my book "I Have Been Moved" on Amazon. I have about 600 poems posted on Wordpress too.
well it's better than the sh*t in this video but much of it also just sounds like a boring story of some event. We've all thought it, heard it, seen it before. You're just telling stories in plain words. Maybe I don't get this kind of poetry but you're saying exactly what anyone else could. Do you have some surprising, unique thoughts?
@@StephJLWReads Don't blame you, I can't even get past the instagram posts let around reading it. You thought about reading and reviewing some musicians poetry? Lana Del Rey and Halsey have both released collections. I loved Lanas but did not like Halseys that much. Would love to see your opinions perhaps x
The Sufferer Desiring His Lot I recall those times I roamed in the wilderness weeping, wailing - like one who longed to be free from his distress. But that was only half-true, or less. Freedom was a beautiful thought whose honeyed taste was the taste of a distant dream. I was more drawn to the sufferer's lot - the suffering that was mine, mine alone, the warm familiar in which I was caught. It was not the dream of freedom that held me but the familiar feeding me, my aliveness expanding, taking wing borne along by my special suffering. As one who praises beauty from afar but dreads it, flees from it when it comes near, so I praised You, freedom, my dreaded star. No, Lord, you showed me: what I desired was not freedom as such, not Your revolution, radiant touch, but the feeling of being special, good in reaching out to You - muted by "Not Yet" - while I could comforted remain in suffering - the suffering in which I'd long been set. A Far Stronger Longing You have muttered sombrely "There are no answers." Another has wondered, "Are you aloof? Do you care?" Another has caught a glimpse of Me yet I seem elusive, erratic, inconsistent, sometimes hiding Myself, sometimes revealing Myself. Problem is: you want both worlds. Problem is: people want both worlds. People want power, they lust for things under the sway of the shadow - then wonder where I am... They want to keep the rubbish they hold dear, holding to the machinations of the mind, yet longing for freedom... My inconsistency is their inconsistency of purpose; I veil Myself in proportion to which they veil themselves from themselves, mistaking their shadows for the light. They want the sweetness, the excitement without the bitterness: when bitterness comes they quickly turn to Me, they quickly turn, as though for freedom. A few long for it, yes. But longing for freedom is as populous as grains of sand nestled within a fingernail. That longing which elevates and refines the selfish instincts, which fashions them in the image of Me, thereby lending them legitimacy - that longing is far stronger.
I would like to know how much poetry any of these poets have actually read. I took a couple of classes in college on 20th century American poetry. Can't remember that much. But I can't imagine anybody reading actual poetry and then writing down something this shallow.
Mine: Recollection I wear the wind sweeping across the savannah, lion pouncing upon the wildebeest. I wear the wind sweeping across 1st Avenue, the middle aged man on his porch seeing the tree stirred gleaming, dreaming fall. I wear the wind and recall Myself in countless forms, both lion and wildebeest, chaser and chased, and middle-aged man, commingled fear and fall, recalling all the way down to the amoeba. The middle aged man on his porch sees afternoon melt into twilight, twilight melting into lamplight, indigo flow of few stars - wherein he feels his bewilderment, indifference that indigo, himself a creature apart not seeing all that magnificence as among the facets of his heart. He believes he's a little thing that for no more than a hundred years can strive and struggle and sing, tremble, tangled in twilight, self-divided, weaver of day and night. I recall Myself as a little bird in its nest full-throated calling out to its mother, its mother never coming back, recalling Myself in countless forms calling out, their loved ones never coming back... I recall as one from vast distances, after much has changed, belief near blasted at all that he once had been whose wound still whispers as suffering seen in both a strange and familiar light, and out of both the wound and intense calm come the music of the spheres new galaxies new universes
I am a poet and have been trying desperately to break out through self-publishing. It brings me comfort to know that I write better than these three individuals combined. 😂
i just think that the sexual imagery is very much unseeded and i feel as if it’s almost violating that one would think of it like that. be kind and not so yucky as well as the language used poetry no matter what kind i feel gives a better understanding with better vocabulary and the word “ fucking” was very unneeded in the sentence i wouldn’t even call it a poem. i agree with your statements 100%.
I agree with everything you said in this video and OMG, what a relief it is to hear someone pop tf off about this soulless bullshit people label as "poetry"
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. A Stepmother Saturday morning freshness overheard the screen door creaking, slamming behind you, your footsteps brushing through glistening grass, crunching the gravelly road, the two of you winding your way toward the wood. The snapping twigs, the score of summer blooms, a father and a son picking mushrooms spoke of a simple time, pristine and good. Saturday twilights would amaze the red cottage windows, a rose-struck glaze, the two of you in the twilight's wake within a boat slicing through the lake. The stillness of a surrounding wood, the silences of a father and son turned meditative in a setting sun spoke of a simple time, pristine and good. Yet the red cottage didn't belong to him, nor was it he who drove you there. It was she who drove you two - to be fair. She had bought the cottage, and care for you she did, the one who became your stepmother. At least without her a father's and son's simple times, their magic would not have made its way into your musings and your rhymes. Your mother's love for you was deep. A good loving mother needn't tell lies. Yet she might keep parts of her son asleep and her eyes may be clouded eyes. Your mother had aversions, presenting you with a limited or distorted view, doing harm without intending to. Your stepmother, like your mother and you, was, is flawed - with afflictions known, unknown - and back then she had been happier too. Brother, Come Back to Us How strange to see you clearing your driveway of snow, your wife Monica waving at you from the upstairs bedroom window. You get in the car in your black leather coat, the car beginning to clear its throat. You had once been my brother - back in Egypt thousands of years ago. We were the eldest children of Pharaoh. How strange to see after all of this that two brothers of a single heart, of one spirit yet are realms apart. Sometimes with a glass of wine, silent, standing on the porch last summer, you'd look up at the stars, the indigo, between apprehension and elation swinging, the sight of which would fuel the flow of fleeting images, being back in Egypt, images of myself and the Pharaoh, not knowing whose brother you were nor son. Our father and I had lost our appetite for human form. We sometimes wear breezes, monsoons, we sometimes wear hail or snowstorm. Brother, too taken with your mind, too bent on your body, you see icy distances and indifference, much of the universe barren, inimical, hostile to life. Yet none of it is even a sliver so. It is more loving than personal love can know, mathematical, the pitch of poetry naked of strife. Brother, what some call the laws of physics are now among the faces of our life. 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... Unless He Comes Into His Own A blizzard blows. Lamplight. Well past midnight. A few windows still have not fallen asleep. Monday morning is a cyclops with a moon and the wanderer will be leaving soon. A blizzard blows. Lamplight. Well past midnight. A few windows still have not fallen asleep. The wanderer sees the faces of the beautiful dead, faces of his mother, her friends, faces that once calmed, comforted, beguiled and watched over the child, faces of friends living elsewhere. They are strung along like the notes of a poignant, fading song such as the child had heard in the bus, on his way to school. The wanderer has been a fool - squandering money, a careless fool, alarmed, troubled, having to wait for a job offer, counting nickels and dimes in an old apartment at forty eight, his consolation music and rhymes and classic books, the words of sages, the spirits of sages and poets about him, their spirits vibrant and glowing in him. The wanderer had been a fool even when ease and comfort carried the times, even when he hadn't counted nickels and dimes. For amid wine and food he still would find other things to trouble him: briefly glad he'd be - but his mind would be the monkey wrench, reminding him of things he never had, of experiences that never came his way, of those who fly or reside above him, of success and fame denied him. The wanderer a wanderer will remain so long as mastery eludes him, so long as his mind possesses him. He can enjoy a wife's kisses, embraces, warmed by his wife's and children's faces, the mortgage paid off, the house his own, the wanderer forgetting his wandering. Unless he comes into his own, finding what it is that within him glows, whatever the thunder, hail or rain, whatever storm or blizzard blows, the wanderer a wanderer will remain.
The first poem was lovely. It reminds me a lot of my дача (county home) in the Russian countryside. I haven’t been there in a while, and considering everything that’s going on there I always feel very melancholic reading anything that reminds me of that place. I write poetry too, and I write a lot about my roots; the atmosphere and events you described is very similar to my own memories of my country home, and are generally very nostalgic :)
@@lizaveta.demina Thanks, Elizaveta. It certainly is among my most accessible poems. It describes my childhood experiences with my father up in Vermont.
Currently writing my poetry book . Blessed to know that my work is far from this . Unlike these books my work deserves to seen and heard . Thank you for creating this video . 😂💜
Mine: The Glowing Arc The mother bird was often tired, foraged for worms, the bushes, grass, the fallen trees, rotting wood in the grip of rainy days. Each day was undistinguished like the one before with wheels, wheels. Chicks cried and cried. She knew the wheel of circling about, never far away from the nest, never reaching for the clouds, never skirting the forest's edge, until, it seemed, something else moved and flew instead of the one she once intimately knew. The weather had warmed up, a sliver of light pierced through the leaves hugging the nest, and pierced through her, like some distant thought at once familiar and strange, some poignancy perhaps unveiling her delight in which was lodged some thorn, lodged a feeling akin to what one feels while recalling young love, the recollection of which is at once delicious and sad. The chicks fed, she felt some power pull her upward, pull her beyond the limit of her forest, pulled her more upward still until she became the sunshine's winged thought or dream, until she became the weaver of what may have been the sunshine's theme, an extension maybe of the sun's desire. For some inexplicable something, all afire, impelled her flight, a mind flummoxed yet filled with delight. Yet something by and by pulled her downward, her flight downward glowing like an arc of a bow that seemed as though it might have been a master archer's dream. For she returned to her nest, and her chicks' eyes had magic enough. She later saw a dewdrop sliding down a blade of grass when she went out foraging again, glittering glass, reflections, rainbow light... She hadn't lost anything in her downward flight, but the light of the sky found itself most fully in her who now circled her nest again and saw her ground. 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. 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.
Omg the r.h. Sin was spot on. I read one of his books the other day and i managed to only find 2 quotes that I actually liked LMAO 😂 the rest was literally “ you’re not like other girls” complex and it did NOT stick w me right. I especially didn’t like when he would repeatedly bring up “you’ll never find a girl like me” bc for me, It sounds very high school pettiness 😂🤣🤣 I like r.h. Sin... but some of his work is too petty for me to enjoy 🤷🏽♀️💖
I'm certainly no Rupi Kaur, nor do I ever aspire to reach her success. But I love writing my poetry. Here is one of my shorter poems. On The Shoulders Of Giants ------------------------------------------------- I was born in the shadow of an old paradigm. But I always could see the light. I was born seeing new horizons, As others have before me. And like those others, I am at best tolerated, And at worst cast aside. But I am defiant. I stand on the shoulders of giants. When I stepped out of the shadow, I became intoxicated. I felt shivers as daggers impaling my soul. I felt a freedom that bows to no tradition, And only serves the divine. I realized I could drink from this cup of truth. I realized I could break these chains that bind me.
The part about Michael Faudet was spot oooon. I bought Smoke & Mirrors and was like "Uh.. okay..." when I finished it and haven't reached for it since, looool.
I agree with what your saying , those poems you quoted sound more like a statement rather than real poetry, I've been writing over 25 years published a book but I'm interested in following what you have too say, .
The fact that I understood the imagery and uncomfortableness of a man coming up to me and twirling a strand of my hair better than the weird stuff in these poetry books says a lot
Love his video ! I’ll be honest, you’re introducing me to the very first one-- “the dirty one….” - & I’ve always loved exotic poetry…. & to be even more honest, I actually enjoyed those that you read lol…. So, I’ll be going to get the book so I can read the rest- thank you for that! I have trouble finding any new artist that writes exotic poetry ….. hopefully, you’ve opened me up to an entire new collection.
Just found your work and was audibly cackling and clapping along with amusement - I wiiiish you had more of these- so funny, validating, spot on, and spicy. Sending u love k bye
As a poet who tries his absolute damnedestestestest to try and make some sort of reasonable poem with structure, thought, meter, and rhyme, I am saddened by these poems also. They are the opposite of what I'd like poetry to be and become in this modern time. (Partially why I try and write better pieces myself (and failing to but that's besides the point)). Anyway! I subscribed. Love this stuff and if you still check old comments I'd love for you to get back to Poetry one day! Maybe review some good modern poets?
You were literally saying exactly what I was thinking, I thought hey, am I some old fart. I do have an education in English and writing but I figured hate the industry changing but you were right a lot of these are just sentences and disconnected thoughts
A disclaimer : if you enjoy these books or feel they have done something for you, that's good. My issue with these books and this genre is not with the readers and consumers but rather the authors and publishers taking advantage of a growing interest in poetry to put out this crap and act like it's revolutionary. Any one reader can take away from these books what they want to and that's the beauty of it, but looking at from the bigger picture, I think that this type of 'poetry' is, for lack of a better word, problematic.
I’ve read some goodreads review on these books and they make me laugh and mad simultaneously! It’s crazy how much praise these get! 😂😒🙄
Poetry is art. It's writing. Putting norms and rules into everything takes away the main aspect. If it doesn't rhyme or isn't long, it can still be poetry. It has a deeper meaning, is beautifully written. I think it does the job.
If you agree that these poems can be enjoyed by some people, what’s with saying that their favourite poems are “bad”? If some people can take something from them then they can’t be “bad”.
@@ainewatanabemccaul9510 i see your point, but I stand by saying that the poems are objectively bad and represent a bad trend within the genre. how people feel about them doesn't change that bit of it. also I needed a clickbait title lol
@@StephJLWReads Fair enough, and yeah I agree that some poems fall short in technical aspects, I write poems as well and try to avoid generic or cliche wordings
It's poetry for people who don't like poetry.
... by people who don't like poetry.
@Last First because what people think is poetry isn't actually poetry. poetry is beautiful.
Well said Andrew Wood, well said.
Petty people's poetry-
Poetically put.
- Peter Perseus Pound (Poet)
@@swigswag3337 that's in the eye of the beholder.
My girlfriend said that these books are just “Collections of incomplete thoughts.” Its painfully accurate.
So true! They're not just incomplete thoughts, they're incomplete poems too. No thought goes into them whatsoever. They're just pandering, shallow shadows of poetry.
Describing it as incomplete is quite gentle
That description of these books is better poetry than the poetry in these books.
And taken as a whole, the collection is one complete thought - instapoetry collections are often not about each individual poem
@Sarah Marie Most of them are complete thoughts. Like any poem, most of them convey a certain feeling, situation, story, etc. in a short-form genre. It’s weird to say they’re “incomplete”
it amazes me how many times michael faudet was able to get away with the line “dusty pink nipples” without his publishers saying anything
Is... Is it dusty-pink or dusty, pink?
@@Brynwyn123 hahahaha i just realized the importance of grammar! it’s dusty-pink :-)
@@Brynwyn123 bahahaahah
💯
“it’s just your kink, buddy.” THANK YOU FOR SAYING THIS
Me: [watches this video]
Me: [flips frantically through poetry journal]
Me: [sighs] Oh thank god
I CACKLED
SAME 😭😭
LMAO SAME
Same lmao
SAMEE
i love writing poetry but sometimes i doubt myself cuz im scared of being judged
this kind of made me feel better about mine though LOL
I’ll jump to show someone my shit , if I’m going up against these people 😂🤦🏾♀️
this is too accurate 😭😭
You are halfway towards being a real poet.
@@MrUndersolo being scared of people making pretentious 20 minute videos criticizing your work is halfway to being a poet? I’m scared of what you think is the other half lmao. If everyone thought this way, then nothing would get published.
You should continue to write.
My partner loves "milk & honey", and they sometimes even write poems themselves, and I think they like it because it's easy. It's easy to understand and it's easy to get inspired by to write something yourself - and that's okay. It's just a shame when the community starts thinking that's all that poetry is. This genre is everywhere and that obviously forms the opinion on what poetry is, and the longer, complex ones become old and boring. :(
I think Kaur's type of poetry becomes old very quickly. Nothing in that work that I actually liked stuck to me in a long thought provoking way or left me with a long term emotional resonance the way actual poetry does (not insta-poetry).
@@valvihk3649 that's also something I noticed. It feels like a quick read and then you're off - but it's my experience, I don't know if the book changed lives for other people yk
But why do we have to dictate what poetry has to be??? Art is free and different. I love Bukowski AND Dickinson AND Neruda AND Byron AND Shelley AND Pasolini... 🤷🏻
@@mermaidmoon2254 it's not what it HAS to be, of course you're free to enjoy poetry any way you like, I read another collecting of Rupi Kaur's and I actually liked it a lot!
It's just a bit of a shame that a lot of this type of poetry is sometimes lacking depth. But then again, not everything needs to be deep and thought provoking because it's completely free for everyone to write what and how they want.
Merely a preference thing I suppose
@daa5865 Damn, I don't think I could be with someone who liked rupi Kaur.
I still can’t get over Lovelace putting “and probably more” at the end of a list of trigger warnings
i genuinely didnt think i’d see that a second time around in her books,,, and yet !!
i think the fact that an adult requires a TW is ridiculous, respectfully.
@@laurasalo6160 I think the fact that an adult could be so unsympathetic to those overcoming trauma is ridiculous, respectfully.
@I am me • 25y ago wow. what do you gain from being so hateful?
@I am me • 25y ago petty ass. people don't NEED trigger warnings, but it's a courtesy. warning someone that your work may include traumatic topics is simply the right thing to do.
Real poets are having a hard time getting published these days due to this shitty fad! Some who are truly good with never get heard due to discouragement from rejection being published due to this stupid tread and it's money potential because people aren't deep enough to read real poetry these days!
Exactly. I'm no Walt Whitman but I was knocked back from this competition because my 'feminist themes were too vague' and it makes me want to invent a unisex pen name so I won't be beholden to this cheap shit and I'm sure the irony of that isn't lost on anyone
or times and poetry has changed. there are different types of poetry that can be categorized as such.
Exactly! I agree.
Finally someone pointed this out
it’s okay to criticize the publishing industry, but let’s not dunk on an entire genre, yeah? it’s not a shitty fad
Michael’s poetry makes me want to become a nun 🙃
Horrible writing to be called poetry :/
My biggest issue with this genre of poetry is honestly the amount of words per page. It’s like 4 lines taking up a whole piece of paper
That's a big problem yes. It's wasteful and it is disrespectful and essentially anti-working class as it doesn't provide value for what you spend out of what you earn.
it's actually a shame to actual poets, they've taken the whole aspect of poetry and made some weird simplified sentence that will get them like 100k-more likes on Instagram whilst other poets get no recognition at all .
Exactly. Like god damn
@I am me • 25y ago exactly
Yeah this isn’t even the slightest bit true… Our government has an appointed port official. There are many publishers who only publish “Traditional” poetry. It’s okay to upset about how the genre has overtaken the mainstream, but let’s not spout nonsense.
@I am me • 25y ago I love romantic poets, I love Dickinson and I’m a massive Tolkien nerd. But I would pick up a collection by Ocean Vuong or Billy Collins before picking up Byron or Shakespeare
@@brycehatfield4103 yeah this was written a while ago , and personally i adore ocean vuongs poetry and occasionally i'll read some rupi kaur , the poetry i am talking about though is mostly the instagram 2 liners , sorry for any offence
"three collections of words put together in an order that is marketed as poetry" - I give this video a like just for that.
The first book felt like I’m being se*ually harassed
this was so needed omg!!! it's honestly insulting to real poets. i hate the trend of "instagram poetry" where people will just write a sentence and chop it into a few awkward sections and sell it because they have a platform. but i hadn't heard of these gross ones by men, that's literally so misogynistic and demeaning. i'm really glad we're talking about this, so thank you. also you're really funny and articulate, i really liked this video. subscribed 🤗
Hey! So “real poetry” is so subjective, and a lot of people take instapoetry out of context. It’s definitely a genre, and instapoets are “real” poets. Just because you don’t like something doesn’t make it any less real.
@@brycehatfield4103 It's not subjective. writing incomplete sentences with incomplete thoughts isn't poetry it's alzheimer's. And the problem we have with it is not that it is "real" but that it is validated over poetry that actually does what poetry is supposed to do. It is supposed to express an idea using literary techniques. So when I see the word "butterfly" written 5x and that poem is in a magazine, I'm wondering how something that means nothing and says nothing can be considered art. If I write the words "communist manifesto" on canvas with an X through it, does that make me intelligent and deep and worthy of praise? No, but I might be laundering money which is what I think these books were created to do. Just like modern art. it's the only explanation that isn't depressing.
@@NC-dw1ir Hey, kiddo, let’s not compare poetry we don’t like to people with Alzheimer’s, okay? It doesn’t make any sense and it’s irrational. Instapoetry is a short-form, direct, poetry subgenre that people have been writing for decades. Dickinson wrote short, titleless poems in the 1800s and Billy Collins, former poet laureate, writes blunt poems today. Just because you don’t like it doesn’t make it “Alzheimer’s”, that’s so wild
@@brycehatfield4103it's poetry only for people who have read no notable literary pieces in their life.
It's definetly interesting to see the evolution of what is considered poetry as it becomes more popularized, especially on social media. The "yep, that is a sentence" sentiment is one I share frequently. Can't wait for your next video!
It’s hard because there are a lot of classic poems that are only a sentence long. I get that instapoetry can seem frustrating, but where do we draw the line?
@@brycehatfield4103 That’s my question as well.
@@nobodygnomes The answer is, sadly, people draw the line when they don’t like something. There are many instapoets that use rhyme and rhythm in a way not even Rupi Kaur does (that’s not to say she isn’t a poet because of that, she absolutely is), but people dismiss them just because of the genre. But because the criteria is so vague, you can very easily justify Emily Dickinson as an instapoet; short poems, no titles, quick and easy to understand. The line is arbitrary, and most people who say it’s not poetry just simply don’t like it and don’t want it to be poetry
@@brycehatfield4103 !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
my worst nightmare is sleeping with someone who will then go on to write a shitty poem about the experience in the most unappealing way possible
There are worse things
Too funny 🤣
I looked up “modern poets who are actually good” and got this instead. Let me say I’m not disappointed. Your opinions aren’t only spot on but you’re really well spoken and hilarious. You gained a new follower
Kaur on the thumbnail made me click LIKE before watching this video.
Putting words
in some random spaces
doesn’t
mean that it is,
in fact,
a poetry.
Unless
It makes me upset she calls it poetry. Call it whatever else but it's not poetry. I maybe like 3-4 "poems" out three books lmao.
Wow! Deep! 👏🏼 🙌🏼 😂😂
It blew my mind what people consider now poetry. This insta poets or tumbler poets or how they call themselves or people call them. Maybe the attention spam is so short now that people find it hard to read something longer or subtle.
That was great actually.
🤣🤣🤣😅
For somebody who's really into classical poetry and loves the true essence of it, it's sometimes frustrating not to mention cringey
Hi, what classic poets do you read?
I love classical poetry, but I also vibe with Rupi Kaur just as much
@Angel Nunn Depends on what you want! Courtney Peppernell is wonderful if you want a short, but lyrical, style of poetry, Billy Collins is very accessible and casual and fun, and of course there are some good classics, like Emily Dickinson, but those can often be hard to read
@@brycehatfield4103 That's you. Ana Blandiana, Maya Angelo, Magda Isanos, Emily Dickinson, Sylvia Plath, Saffo, Phillis Wheatley, Marina Tsvetaeva... Are leagues above Rupi Kaur.
@@eduardmanecuta5350 i disagree, but either way, that doesn’t mean that kaur is any less poetry than the classics are
this video is just dropping straight truths for free????
i started to write (and read) poetry recently and i was scared my poems were really bad...but ngl this made me feel better about myself LMAO some of these are so ???😭😭😭😭 (great video btw ur so funny!!)
Lol same here, I also started writing recently. Sometimes I feel like my writing is kinda cliche and get bit disappointed on myself. And This does make me feel better about myself, at least little bit..... Lol
Use that self-doubt to make you a better writer. It's good that you question your work and if you look back on your older poems and wince, that's good too. It means you are growing as an artist.
@@tanuprit385 I think some cliche's in writing are warranted considering there are only so many human experiences we can experience, you know? But what makes it unique is your take. I'm sure no poet is worse than those three, well except Kaur.
@@NC-dw1ir aw, thank you for your kind words :] i'm still not really confident about my poetry skills but i am trying to get better, so i really appreciate your comment
im currently writing a verse novel and one of my biggest fears is becoming like those poets and i grow anxious day by day /hj
That fear will keep you going
Keep it up, you may end up like Browning
lmaoo SAME it’s my biggest fear but just stay authentic
hj?
@@madeleine8662 it means half joking :)
@@menofculture5285 wow i think thats one of the craziest things someone has ever said to me,,,,,, thank you 😭 although i’d like to be more familiar with classic english literature
OMG. I've been saying this for years. THESE AREN'T POEMS. I hate this trend so much - it's just people saying things...completely unpoetically. It fills me with literary rage lol. Thank you for making this 😆
this video was so satisfying to watch because i couldn't express my distaste of insta poetry as bluntly as i wanted to. My teacher made us read Rupi Kaur as amazing show-stopping content and I was in awe, I should have kept my tweets from high school if i had known bad poetry would be the new art
"It communicates its message and its message is stupid" is the sickest burn I've heard all year.
I literally went through every one of these poetry books in the bookstore and thought something was wrong with me for being immediately put off lol
I am always worried that the poems i write are not actually poetic or complex in any literary sense, and then i see these poems.
Same here
For some ungodly reason, this video came up after I had searched TH-cam for "Sylvia Plath Poetry Reading", so I was getting primed to deliver the intellectual equivalent of "u wot mate?" and what do I get instead? Funny and accurate criticism of the sort of meretricious pseudo-poetry whose success in recent days has always been baffling to me. I really enjoyed going back and watching your video on "the princess saves herself in this one" and seeing the timeline of how you start off with very mild-mannered and reserved criticism and gradually get more and more confident and scathing in your condemnation, but without ever being unreasonable or unfair. Bonus points for mentioning Morning In The Burned House as an example of doing well what some of these writers do for no good reason, I've always loved that poem. It's always gratifying to see a person with a discerning mind. You've also helped to sell me on reading Jane Eyre and watching Shadow and Bone, so thanks for that. Good stuff.
lmao, I also gave up on finishing "The Witch doesn't burn in this one". It is just too tacky. At first I was giving it a chance considering it perhaps as a sort of raw, almost spontaneous expression of emotions around trauma and so on. However, after a third of the book it became quite clear that she didn't have any new ideas, simply rehashing the same thing over and over again. I think the editor might have just given up as well, thinking "fuck it, not going to bother with this one..."
You could argue that some of the poetry should be considered visual art, rather than actual poetry. Some of them may even be considered some post-modern take on dadaism. Still, it all comes across as lazy and uninspired.
the thing is,,,, is it interesting enough visually to be visual art? 👀👀
@@StephJLWReads As you pointed out in your previous video, in Lovelace's poetry the shapes don't really support the text in any particular way. In dadaism, you have for example these sound poems (e.g. Hugo Ball). And I recently saw a photo of a poem "river/sandbank" by Seiichi Niikuni on a wall in Leiden (they have many poems as murals around the city).
I appreciate these books on some level because they have the ability to be “gateway poetry” for people who don’t find most poetry palatable, but you’re correct in acknowledging that these are just plain bad lol
Why in the world would a man try and write about what a woman would feel during the devil's tango with herself? Why why why? You don't understand that, buddy!
this makes me want to do a good job when i release my own poetry book😭
same i'm so nervous abt it, i want to give my best !!
This is needed on so many levels. Thank you.
Not gonna lie, I've been wanting to send you my first book of free verse for the purpose of having one of your brutally honest reviews. I just LOVE your delivery so much! LOL It'll be out soon, I'm waiting for Amazon to review it for filth and approve it.
you can contact me and send it my way if you like! or just let me know when it’s up on amazon :)
what's it called? We wanna read it and see what's up.
This was refreshing in that it summarized the experience some us feel who try really hard with writing poetry, then see the crap thays on Instagram and selling well and want to give up. A proper dismantling of terrible collections!
"and more" nah that took me out 💀
my mother language is portuguese and I love to read and write poetry and also reading general books in english. I was so excited to try poetry in english too but I was soooo disappointed with the hyped and modern authors. most of them feel like motivational quotes from that post grandmas put on facebook. like where’s the depth? where’s the enigma or thought the reader has to figure and think about? it makes me sad how my mind was blank reading these
Michael Faudet's poems sound like they would be the headline or like splash of the profile of one of those guys with a cockatar and no other pictures on Fetlife. But of course, he's so much a "dom" or a "bull". LAWL.
I don't want or like to shame a person on their preferences and likes but these...aren't poetry.
I was just googling what mistakes not to make in my first poetry book and man, this is entertaining. You’ve got a fan
Michael’s poetry somehow made me even more of a lesbian than I already was.
Reading his work somehow dialed me up to a 7 on the Kinsey Scale.
Same.
Yes, I can relate!
Good old Michael pushed me to hitherto unreached levels of asexuality.
He made me gay
Goddammit
Micheal was the WORST. I read his book once and never picked it up again. Just what.... disguising. I thought r.h sin was basic and I haven’t even finished Amanda’s Lovelace book because It just didn’t keep my attention.
"I'm sure they are perfectly pleasant, wonderful people to be around. I don't know them. All I know is their work, and I hate their work." I'm sorry but that phrase is so funny, I like it too much LMAOO
Just saw your rant on Lovelace's first collection before this one. And I just love this thought of some of your comments on the back of these books:
"I just don't vibe with that."
"uh that's disgusting."
"It's so painfully obvious: it's just your kink buddy."
and*
"It's the saviour complex for me."
*not "&" for the sake of your sanity
These poetry collections make me wonder if the poets have even opened a book of poetry before.
That's because they haven't -- you are correct. You can tell the modern poets that have read widely, and those that haven't read widely at all, if at all.
That Michael Faudet dude just sounds like he read 50 Shades of Gray and thought it was fucking Melville. 🤣
Also your take on modern day flash poetry is refreshing and spot on from someone your age. It's great to see this genre being called out for what it truly is, mass produced, easily digestible garbage as you said. I cannot thank you enough for posting this
I really needed this today. As far as I'm concerned your opinion is the absolute truth. Looking forward to your recommendations 🍒
Couldn't agree more with everything you said in this video. These books give poetry a bad name yet somehow they are the most popular poetry books in the world atm. The only reason these are popular is because they are easy to digest, people have short attention spans and they have great marketing. It would be lovely to walk into a book store one day and find something of substance in the poetry section. There are talented poets out there but they are being robbed of the attention they deserve.
It is profoundly relieving to discover your page. I am currently writing an essay on the modern poetic form, where I attempt to argue respectfully the hijacking that "free verse" has had on modern poetry. More specifically on the literary magazines and publishers. I'm a huge fan of Chris Bursk and alot of other "free verse" poets. But it seems to me there's almost a prejudice against rhyme
Interesting. I think the prejudice is against bad rhyme. Good rhyme will always have a place. Submit to contests looking for rhyme. Research editors and publications. Who likes rhyme? Send them there. I don't think free verse has hijacked modern poetry, as much as instapoetry has hijacked free verse.
Please make more poetry videos! Not only are they hilarious, but also super useful - I am trying to improve my own poetry and I feel like I learned from your criticisms of other people's bad poetry 😅. I would love to hear you give some examples of poets/poems that you do like as well. Anyway, thank you for making cool stuff:)
Kathleen Raine highlighted the issue with this type of poetry in her incredible literary framework she called 'the inner journey of the poet', she essentially said that poetry is the purest way we can communicate the soul (in a very literal sense: she was very spiritual I believe) but unfortunately we have become content with poetry being 'self-expressive'. good poetry should go beyond that, it should touch upon the universal.
AN ODE TO THE MOON
I am roaming the emptiness of the desert.
The moon's rotund fullness hangs in the void of the heavens,
Mid-way to the unseen horizon in the East.
The moon threatens to plummet into the desert floor,
Yet it maintains its oversight above its dominion.
The dulcet tones of the moon's milky-white soothe me,
But it is not my body they charm,
They pierce the ramparts to an unfathomable chamber in the bedrock of my soul.
And I feel a joy not confined to the borders of my flesh.
It is a joy emanating from deep within me,
And yet it belongs to us all.
And then I ask: Why is it that the sun's strong light exposes my body,
Yet the moon's milky-white exposes my soul?
I am peeking between two almost kissing cliffs.
I still my mind and then I see the snail's pace of the moon,
As it peeks at me behind the West cliff on its mission across the sky.
Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the moon's sliver advances past the cliff's edge,
And widens until it once more appears in all its rotund glory,
As it falls to the other side.
When the moon's edge reaches the other cliff it hides again,
Until once more I only see its thin sliver,
And then it is beyond my sight.
When the moon reveals this subtle dance to mine own eyes,
I feel an intimacy with it that no book can offer,
No teacher can teach.
On this night, the crescent moon floods the recesses of my soul with its pale milky glow,
And a mystical silence envelops the desert's void.
On other nights, in other places, the silence would be dulled by a crying baby,
while her mother sings a lullaby,
Or in the desert by the plaintive shriek of an anonymous wind,
As it hurtles across the desert floor,
To lands beyond horizon's reach.
But on this night, the silence is absolute,
And it comforts me like a blanket comforts a child.
This is nice!
@@rahstara Thank you!
@@nissimlevy3762 You're welcome! ^-^
Beautiful!
@@Picking_upY0urPetalZ thank you. It's an excerpt from my novel Shards Of Divinities
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.
First Love (1)
Long buried in the drawer
the photograph looked at me
as a dimly lit chink of a door.
Behind my father my first love stood,
violin in hand, her freshness all aglow
on the stage of teenagehood.
An old song softly made its way,
a haunting of harmonica and piano
calling to mind her standing one summer day
on a balcony, then a balcony with snow.
She married years later, while my father
was swept away by an alien tide
so that during my visits once a year
I heard his drunken laughter masking fear,
great artistic promise not quite meeting
the luminous, long-remembered career.
The photo went back in the drawer.
The bedroom curtain tapped and stirred.
Dandelion seeds were scattered, blown away
as the summer light with the voice of a bird,
a faint afternoon perfume, stood aglow
opening a strange and familiar window
to one moment long before the girl -
when peace and joy were themselves the glow
of what didn't care to possess, achieve, or know.
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.
While You Still Have Your Youth
You are young, you are strong,
and health is still your friend.
Will you employ your youthful years,
heaping up strife and shedding tears,
in the pursuit of perishable things?
Go on, look to your left and right
and see just what struggles or sufferings
people endure for what passes away.
Yet matters of the spirit, the essential,
seldom take up even a single day.
Employ the same vigor, intensity
in the service of finding Me
without holding to any picture of Me,
and perishable things, all that you need,
will come without enslaving you;
like faithful servants they'll follow you.
Don't waste your youth trying to gain
the good opinion of others, respect, success,
like one who treats this shifting world of foam
as though it were his foundation or home.
Cry for Me as one in the wilderness,
give yourself to the journey back to Me.
Purify yourself - and the death you mistook
for life will fall away, you will see Me.
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.
A More Powerful Love
No longer will I cook for you
or sit beside you.
You will never call me again from overseas
or look into my face.
Nor will wisdom flame
in the familiar fireplace of conversation.
Nor will the ship moor to
the dock it has known for 20 years.
I can come to you as anxiety
when you're too lethargic, lax,
and the time has come to act.
I can come to you as loneliness
to wake you to your selfishness,
to wake you to the fact
generosity may burn the brighter.
Where once I fed and clothed the child,
made the bed and cleaned the room of the child,
I can now illuminate your solitude,
weave the melodies of circumstance
pleasing or grating, deepening your art,
be the silence savored of a wanderer
who has found a home without stone or walls.
Sometimes, no friends around, you'll pine.
Sometimes, your friends will seem far away,
distance smelling of a different sphere,
and you'll doubt yourself, you may wonder
whether you're going mad and you've deserved
the misfortune, fierce forces pulling you back
into old courses. Like a tough teacher
who loves a student, I'll show you
what you would not have wished upon yourself.
I may obstruct, frustrate, and terrify you -
but, love, I'll be your liberation too.
nice
ok, first of, this is so underrated, I really enjoyed reading your poetry, the first one where youth is hidden in the eyes of random men, I died there, pls, I loved it, and last one, of a old boy being a vegetable stored and examined on papers and how, once he had a spirit, and now, how it's wandering endlessly in the soulless hospital.. you seriously deserve more people to read your poetry, I recommend maybe starting a social media account, or submit it to a magazine, it would get the attention it deserves, and I hope you write more and more
@@srinivasanm3601 I appreciate the support. Thanks. One professional reviewer has called me one of Canada's best poets. So my work has not gone altogether unnoticed. If you're interested you can purchase my book "I Have Been Moved" on Amazon. I have about 600 poems posted on Wordpress too.
your writing gives me the happy chemical shocks i love your style so much ❤
well it's better than the sh*t in this video but much of it also just sounds like a boring story of some event. We've all thought it, heard it, seen it before. You're just telling stories in plain words. Maybe I don't get this kind of poetry but you're saying exactly what anyone else could.
Do you have some surprising, unique thoughts?
I know you said you wont but id love to see a rupi kaur review! These reviews are so funny and totally true and love them.
maybe I'll return to hate reading poetry one day, but I'm still recovering from my experiences in this video lmao
@@StephJLWReads Don't blame you, I can't even get past the instagram posts let around reading it. You thought about reading and reviewing some musicians poetry? Lana Del Rey and Halsey have both released collections. I loved Lanas but did not like Halseys that much. Would love to see your opinions perhaps x
Honestly the description box sold me.
I have waited all my life to hear someone say this
I can’t believe I’m just now finding this video… you are doing holy work here girl. Whew. SOMEONE HAD TO SAY IT. X
Such “nice guy” energy from these “poets”
I also once sold a sock filled with stone for 2 seconds of the moons eclipse. Without doubt surely, its flat.
we need Steph to write a book called ‘the princess does whatever the fuck it is’ with actual quality poetry 😂
OMG THANK YOU FOR THIS VIDEO
The Sufferer Desiring His Lot
I recall those times
I roamed in the wilderness
weeping, wailing - like one
who longed to be free from his distress.
But that was only half-true, or less.
Freedom was a beautiful thought
whose honeyed taste was the taste of a distant dream.
I was more drawn to the sufferer's lot -
the suffering that was mine, mine alone,
the warm familiar in which I was caught.
It was not the dream of freedom that held me
but the familiar feeding me,
my aliveness expanding, taking wing
borne along by my special suffering.
As one who praises beauty from afar
but dreads it, flees from it when it comes near,
so I praised You, freedom, my dreaded star.
No, Lord, you showed me: what I desired
was not freedom as such,
not Your revolution, radiant touch,
but the feeling of being special, good
in reaching out to You - muted by "Not Yet" -
while I could comforted remain in suffering -
the suffering in which I'd long been set.
A Far Stronger Longing
You have muttered sombrely "There are no answers."
Another has wondered, "Are you aloof? Do you care?"
Another has caught a glimpse of Me
yet I seem elusive, erratic, inconsistent,
sometimes hiding Myself, sometimes revealing Myself.
Problem is: you want both worlds.
Problem is: people want both worlds.
People want power, they lust for things
under the sway of the shadow - then wonder
where I am... They want to keep the rubbish
they hold dear, holding to the machinations
of the mind, yet longing for freedom...
My inconsistency is their inconsistency
of purpose; I veil Myself in proportion
to which they veil themselves from themselves,
mistaking their shadows for the light.
They want the sweetness, the excitement
without the bitterness: when bitterness comes
they quickly turn to Me,
they quickly turn, as though for freedom.
A few long for it, yes. But longing for
freedom is as populous as grains of sand
nestled within a fingernail. That longing
which elevates and refines the selfish instincts,
which fashions them in the image of Me,
thereby lending them legitimacy -
that longing is far stronger.
I told my sister that potatoes do not have the same amount of skin as to an onion. But potatoes do grow in concrete.
I feel the same way about today’s music in regards to lyrics. Wow, that was bad poetry.
Love your miniature panther!
❤️🐾
Milk and honey on thumbnail? Agree
I would like to know how much poetry any of these poets have actually read. I took a couple of classes in college on 20th century American poetry. Can't remember that much. But I can't imagine anybody reading actual poetry and then writing down something this shallow.
@The_Noble_One It can teach you how NOT to write poetry.
Mine:
Recollection
I wear the wind
sweeping across the savannah,
lion pouncing upon the wildebeest.
I wear the wind
sweeping across 1st Avenue,
the middle aged man on his porch
seeing the tree stirred
gleaming, dreaming fall.
I wear the wind
and recall Myself
in countless forms,
both lion and wildebeest,
chaser and chased,
and middle-aged man,
commingled fear and fall,
recalling all
the way down
to the amoeba.
The middle aged man on his porch
sees afternoon melt
into twilight, twilight melting
into lamplight, indigo flow
of few stars -
wherein he feels his bewilderment,
indifference that indigo,
himself a creature apart
not seeing all that magnificence
as among the facets of his heart.
He believes he's a little thing
that for no more than a hundred years
can strive and struggle and sing,
tremble, tangled in twilight,
self-divided, weaver of day and night.
I recall Myself
as a little bird in its nest
full-throated calling out to its mother,
its mother never coming back,
recalling Myself
in countless forms calling out,
their loved ones never coming back...
I recall as one
from vast distances,
after much has changed,
belief near blasted
at all that he once had been
whose wound still whispers
as suffering seen
in both a strange and familiar light,
and out of both
the wound and intense calm come
the music of the spheres
new galaxies
new universes
I am a poet and have been trying desperately to break out through self-publishing. It brings me comfort to know that I write better than these three individuals combined. 😂
I was about ready to FIGHT for Shakespeare and Maya Angelou hahaha great video
i just think that the sexual imagery is very much unseeded and i feel as if it’s almost violating that one would think of it like that. be kind and not so yucky as well as the language used poetry no matter what kind i feel gives a better understanding with better vocabulary and the word “ fucking” was very unneeded in the sentence i wouldn’t even call it a poem. i agree with your statements 100%.
this was such a well spoken criticism of these works bless you
Ew, ew, ew at the voyeur poem.
i couldn’t have said it better myself
that was heinous!!
When it comes to s*xually explicit poetry, Yosano Akiko's "Tangled Hair" tanka poems are much better.
I agree with everything you said in this video and OMG, what a relief it is to hear someone pop tf off about this soulless bullshit people label as "poetry"
I can’t wait to hear you rant about some actually GOOD poetry!!!
Guys please please read mine! I haven't gotten any criticism in the eight years I've been writing!
Thank you for saying all the things that we think but don't have the guts to put out there.
the line "a tiny mouth opens" haunts me
When the so-called poets decided to promote poetry in a way they unknowingly destroy it.
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.
A Stepmother
Saturday morning freshness overheard
the screen door creaking, slamming behind you,
your footsteps brushing through glistening grass,
crunching the gravelly road, the two of you
winding your way toward the wood.
The snapping twigs, the score of summer blooms,
a father and a son picking mushrooms
spoke of a simple time, pristine and good.
Saturday twilights would amaze
the red cottage windows, a rose-struck glaze,
the two of you in the twilight's wake
within a boat slicing through the lake.
The stillness of a surrounding wood,
the silences of a father and son
turned meditative in a setting sun
spoke of a simple time, pristine and good.
Yet the red cottage didn't belong to him,
nor was it he who drove you there.
It was she who drove you two - to be fair.
She had bought the cottage, and care
for you she did, the one who became
your stepmother. At least without her
a father's and son's simple times,
their magic would not have made its way
into your musings and your rhymes.
Your mother's love for you was deep.
A good loving mother needn't tell lies.
Yet she might keep parts of her son asleep
and her eyes may be clouded eyes.
Your mother had aversions, presenting you
with a limited or distorted view,
doing harm without intending to.
Your stepmother, like your mother and you,
was, is flawed - with afflictions known, unknown -
and back then she had been happier too.
Brother, Come Back to Us
How strange to see you
clearing your driveway of snow,
your wife Monica waving at you
from the upstairs bedroom window.
You get in the car in your black leather coat,
the car beginning to clear its throat.
You had once been my brother -
back in Egypt thousands of years ago.
We were the eldest children of Pharaoh.
How strange to see after all of this
that two brothers of a single heart,
of one spirit yet are realms apart.
Sometimes with a glass of wine, silent,
standing on the porch last summer,
you'd look up at the stars, the indigo,
between apprehension and elation
swinging, the sight of which would fuel the flow
of fleeting images, being back in Egypt,
images of myself and the Pharaoh,
not knowing whose brother you were nor son.
Our father and I had lost
our appetite for human form.
We sometimes wear breezes, monsoons,
we sometimes wear hail or snowstorm.
Brother, too taken with your mind,
too bent on your body, you see
icy distances and indifference,
much of the universe barren,
inimical, hostile to life.
Yet none of it is even a sliver so.
It is more loving than personal love can know,
mathematical, the pitch of poetry naked of strife.
Brother, what some call the laws of physics
are now among the faces of our life.
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...
Unless He Comes Into His Own
A blizzard blows.
Lamplight. Well past midnight.
A few windows
still have not fallen asleep.
Monday morning
is a cyclops with a moon
and the wanderer
will be leaving soon.
A blizzard blows.
Lamplight. Well past midnight.
A few windows
still have not fallen asleep.
The wanderer sees
the faces of the beautiful dead,
faces of his mother, her friends,
faces that once calmed, comforted, beguiled
and watched over the child,
faces of friends living elsewhere.
They are strung along
like the notes of a poignant, fading song
such as the child had heard
in the bus, on his way to school.
The wanderer has been a fool -
squandering money, a careless fool,
alarmed, troubled, having to wait
for a job offer, counting nickels and dimes
in an old apartment at forty eight,
his consolation music and rhymes
and classic books, the words of sages,
the spirits of sages and poets about him,
their spirits vibrant and glowing in him.
The wanderer had been a fool
even when ease and comfort carried the times,
even when he hadn't counted nickels and dimes.
For amid wine and food he still would find
other things to trouble him: briefly glad
he'd be - but his mind would be the monkey wrench,
reminding him of things he never had,
of experiences that never came his way,
of those who fly or reside above him,
of success and fame denied him.
The wanderer a wanderer will remain
so long as mastery eludes him,
so long as his mind possesses him.
He can enjoy a wife's kisses, embraces,
warmed by his wife's and children's faces,
the mortgage paid off, the house his own,
the wanderer forgetting his wandering.
Unless he comes into his own,
finding what it is that within him glows,
whatever the thunder, hail or rain,
whatever storm or blizzard blows,
the wanderer a wanderer will remain.
That was tantalizing
The first poem was lovely. It reminds me a lot of my дача (county home) in the Russian countryside. I haven’t been there in a while, and considering everything that’s going on there I always feel very melancholic reading anything that reminds me of that place. I write poetry too, and I write a lot about my roots; the atmosphere and events you described is very similar to my own memories of my country home, and are generally very nostalgic :)
@@lizaveta.demina Thanks, Elizaveta. It certainly is among my most accessible poems. It describes my childhood experiences with my father up in Vermont.
I just wanted to say I think "bunny ears hands" is my favorite word combo of this year.
Currently writing my poetry book . Blessed to know that my work is far from this .
Unlike these books my work deserves to seen and heard .
Thank you for creating this video . 😂💜
lol where is it then?
“There’s nothing respectful about making something your muse.” … What?
Mine:
The Glowing Arc
The mother bird was often tired,
foraged for worms, the bushes, grass,
the fallen trees, rotting wood
in the grip of rainy days.
Each day was undistinguished like the one before
with wheels, wheels. Chicks cried and cried.
She knew the wheel of circling about,
never far away from the nest, never reaching for
the clouds, never skirting the forest's edge,
until, it seemed, something else moved and flew
instead of the one she once intimately knew.
The weather had warmed up, a sliver of light
pierced through the leaves hugging the nest,
and pierced through her, like some distant thought
at once familiar and strange,
some poignancy perhaps unveiling her delight
in which was lodged some thorn,
lodged a feeling akin to what one feels
while recalling young love, the recollection
of which is at once delicious and sad.
The chicks fed, she felt some power
pull her upward, pull her beyond
the limit of her forest, pulled her more
upward still until she became
the sunshine's winged thought or dream,
until she became the weaver
of what may have been the sunshine's theme,
an extension maybe of the sun's desire.
For some inexplicable something, all afire,
impelled her flight, a mind
flummoxed yet filled with delight.
Yet something by and by
pulled her downward,
her flight downward glowing like an arc
of a bow that seemed as though
it might have been a master archer's dream.
For she returned
to her nest, and her chicks' eyes had
magic enough. She later saw
a dewdrop sliding down a blade of grass
when she went out foraging again,
glittering glass,
reflections, rainbow light...
She hadn't lost anything in her downward flight,
but the light of the sky found
itself most fully in her who now
circled her nest again and saw her ground.
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.
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.
This is awesome. I did this with my poetry in comments elsewhere. Proves a point!
Wait why am I just seeing this now omg?? Queen is back with her queenery. Love you and hate this LOL
If Bukowski have read these guys he would have had an aneurysm.
if only 😔 that would elevate this poetry to godlike levels
Omg the r.h. Sin was spot on. I read one of his books the other day and i managed to only find 2 quotes that I actually liked LMAO 😂 the rest was literally “ you’re not like other girls” complex and it did NOT stick w me right. I especially didn’t like when he would repeatedly bring up “you’ll never find a girl like me” bc for me, It sounds very high school pettiness 😂🤣🤣 I like r.h. Sin... but some of his work is too petty for me to enjoy 🤷🏽♀️💖
I'm certainly no Rupi Kaur, nor do I ever aspire to reach her success. But I love writing my poetry. Here is one of my shorter poems.
On The Shoulders Of Giants
-------------------------------------------------
I was born in the shadow of an old paradigm.
But I always could see the light.
I was born seeing new horizons,
As others have before me.
And like those others,
I am at best tolerated,
And at worst cast aside.
But I am defiant.
I stand on the shoulders of giants.
When I stepped out of the shadow,
I became intoxicated.
I felt shivers as daggers impaling my soul.
I felt a freedom that bows to no tradition,
And only serves the divine.
I realized I could drink from this cup of truth.
I realized I could break these chains that bind me.
I love it 💙
Great video, meticulous editing, awesome commentary
The part about Michael Faudet was spot oooon. I bought Smoke & Mirrors and was like "Uh.. okay..." when I finished it and haven't reached for it since, looool.
I agree with what your saying , those poems you quoted sound more like a statement rather than real poetry, I've been writing over 25 years published a book but I'm interested in following what you have too say, .
The fact that I understood the imagery and uncomfortableness of a man coming up to me and twirling a strand of my hair better than the weird stuff in these poetry books says a lot
This was awfully mordant but you’re right on every single point.
Love his video ! I’ll be honest, you’re introducing me to the very first one-- “the dirty one….” - & I’ve always loved exotic poetry…. & to be even more honest, I actually enjoyed those that you read lol…. So, I’ll be going to get the book so I can read the rest- thank you for that! I have trouble finding any new artist that writes exotic poetry ….. hopefully, you’ve opened me up to an entire new collection.
You are so funny!! I agree with you and I’m shocked this is what’s selling… YIKES
“there are several layers to a woman”
“just several?!?!”
LMAO
Just found your work and was audibly cackling and clapping along with amusement - I wiiiish you had more of these- so funny, validating, spot on, and spicy. Sending u love k bye
As a poet who tries his absolute damnedestestestest to try and make some sort of reasonable poem with structure, thought, meter, and rhyme, I am saddened by these poems also. They are the opposite of what I'd like poetry to be and become in this modern time. (Partially why I try and write better pieces myself (and failing to but that's besides the point)). Anyway! I subscribed. Love this stuff and if you still check old comments I'd love for you to get back to Poetry one day! Maybe review some good modern poets?
Me too! But i dont rhyme oftenly i feel ashamed these people exist.
They aren't representative of good free verse either.
You were literally saying exactly what I was thinking, I thought hey, am I some old fart. I do have an education in English and writing but I figured hate the industry changing but you were right a lot of these are just sentences and disconnected thoughts