About an hour ago, I decided to throw a semi-quiet mini temper tantrum at Barnes & Noble in which I loudly exclaimed how many of the books in their expanded poetry section were trash shock value greeting card instapoetry along the lines of

“Fuck,” she said, “I’ll never get him back.”

THIS IS NOT POETRY.

When did poets become Rupi Kaur clones instead of Mary Oliver emulators? Rupi Kaur, Atticus, and the like are overrated navel-gazers who write “relatable,” “mood” mini-essays that have absolutely no artistic skill or effort put into them. No hint of any metaphors, allusions, alliteration, conceit, or rhyme. They aren’t even that thought-provoking. I’m not calling it shite because it’s popular and I’m jealous. I’m calling it shite because I’m angry that shite is popular.

I refuse to write such simplistic drivel just to appeal to the masses. I refuse to change the definition of poetry so non-literary-inclined people can pretend they “get” and enjoy poetry now. I protest. A toddler’s refrigerator sketch should not now or ever be placed in the same category as Van Gogh, Salvador Dali, and Josephine Wall. We must put in the work to be our own versions of greatness. Not scribble mediocrity just because it sells.

However, that being said, I did find this scrumptious oasis of a book, “Submerge” by K.Y. Robinson, that is not only refreshing in its allusions but also happens to be by a woman of color. I bought it immediately. (And it was a signed copy!)

If you have found my work at all intriguing, you will love her as well. For once, something decent got through a poetry publishing house.

End of tantrum.