There’s No Such Thing as Bad Poetry
I’ve seen many an upturned nose when it comes to poetry. The sensibilities of the learned scowling at the common poems. Mostly those deemed ‘internet poems.’
Think: Rupi Kaur Milk and Honey.
you’ve touched me
without even
touching me
Think: Charles Bukowski Burning in Water Drowning in Flame. (Though Charles Bukowski is a more complicated figure with different reasons for disdain. Here I’m basing this on the poetry alone.)
this July day
lilies storm my brain,
I’ll remember this.
you’re here, yet I’m sad again.
Both disregarded largely because they are simple, easy to understand, and broadly liked.
But more complicated does not inherently mean better. Nor does the reverse.
It comes down to the purpose of poetry: whether it resonates with the reader. Just one reader. Even the writer themself.
And that tone of resonance is different with every poem, every poet.
With Frost we lose ourselves in autumn forests with a vague, muddling sense of regret and indecision. With Poe we are confined in cupboards with the floorboards creaking beyond the closed door.
With Kaur we tangle in the sheets of our first apartment, charred love softly smoking in our chests. With Bukowski we sit on the bathroom floor, rolling another empty bottle under the sink.
All different, none better or worse than another.
It’s like comparing a willow to a cherry blossom tree. Is height the measure? The color of the leaves? Or the eye of the beholder?
And we all understand these sentiments. We’ve heard it a thousand times. But we make the same mistake, over and over. Trying to assign objectivity to art. Trying to meter out which is better, which is good, which is great, what should be exalted, what we should kneel before. Our minds love ranking and hierarchy, ladders to be climbed.
But art is a garden stretching across a vast plain — all on equal footing, the horizon right where it’s supposed to be. Roses and carrots and ferns — all precisely what they are.
The poem of the child is equal to Poe. The trite beginner is equal to the award-winning poet. Because there is beauty there too.
