A master class in subtle savagery, profile writing edition

This was an excellent example of a writer letting a vacuous subject hang herself slowly.

The Instagram Poet Outselling Homer Ten to One

 

Sounds like she would have needed to go write greeting cards to make a living 10 years ago.

 

Deeeeep Thoughts ... by Jacqueline Handey:

 

I love art. Many forms: writing, acting, painting, sculpting, singing, playing instruments. But man, poetry has always been a bridge too far for me. The shit that rhymes is fine to a degree, the whole playing tennis with a net thing (Frost), but free verse is 99.9 percent garbage IMHO. Unless you put it to great backing music and put it on a record, which is basically the only place for poetry today. This woman's poetry -- what I've seen anyway -- is even too precious for poetry. You are you own soul mate? Fuck you, that ain't art; that's a shitty fortune cookie saying.

 

I stopped at "The Instagram Poet."

Then I gave it a chance. I couldn't get past "kimono-shaped jacket."

 

The whole piece is a takedown. Don't read it as flattery.

 

Her monies happiness is all that monies.

 

I tried to read that and couldn't. Not a bad piece. I just hated so much of what it was about.

 

Pretty, pretty good stuff.

That poetry is some trite shit. Who'd read that?

 

Waited all day to read this and finally got to it. That was fucking fantastic.

 

I'm going to argue the contra here, and say that while I understand the assignment - cover the momentary bestselling "poet" in America - I wish as much time and energy could be mustered at New York magazine to cover the real poets, the actual poets doing the work of American poetry.

This seems a great deal like shooting fish in a barrel.

The piece is a damning indictment of her audience, too, but never really addresses that. Someone is buying all this sophomoric tripe. Who? Why?

 

Same people who thought The Secret was profound.