The Gatekeeping Of Poetry | 7.21.24

Typewriter Series #2257 by me

This is a bit of a rant, and will probably ruffle some feathers, but I only know to be honest, and in the pursuit of that, I must say: I’ve lost count at this point. Somewhere around 100? Maybe 200? I had to stop counting how many different people from different random publications, universities, high schools, blogs, or podcasts approached me wanting an interview about “Instapoetry” and how I felt about my role in its rise to popularity. They asked, over and over again, if I considered myself an “Instapoet” or if I found that term offensive, if I wondered myself about what the term meant. I always answered with kindness, I always did my very best to not seem bored or irritated, and I always gave the same answers. Look up any number of the interviews and you’ll see a common thread running through them all, and that thread is this:

I am a poet, that happens to use Instagram, and social media, to share some of my work. I am a poet, who has written since he was 11 years old for one reason, and one reason only: To get out the aching noise inside. That is it, that is all. All the rest is semantics.

It seems to me that there’s long been divide between POETRY and “poetry” and it’s an unfortunate one, in my humblest opinion. There is an invisible line, a border that you can’t quite see or pick out, but know it’s there. It hums, as though electrified, and it wraps an entire community in a seemingly impenetrable shield. This is Poetry, and I do not blame—not always at least—the poets that live inside this gated community, but I do feel sadness for the role that so many outside of it play in erecting that buzzing wire at its perimeter.

Only those allowed inside the gates, beyond that hallowed borderland, are allowed to be called Poets, only their work allowed to be called Poetry. The more opaque the words written, the more seemingly disjointed or jarring, the more aimed entirely at the demonstration of obscure words that most often fail to appear in normal nomenclature, the higher the level of praise. To be blunt, I have found that so much of the capital P POETRY that gets published, that gets praised, that gets passed around and yes, paid for, is opaque to the point of not being relatable, it’s intentionally this way, and meaning is assigned to what could quite possibly have very little at all. It’s said in a way that makes people snap their fingers at fancy readings because, quite possibly, collectively, no one actually understands what the fuck is being said.

I have seen this line drawn in front of me many, many times since I began writing, I have seen it most profoundly since my first book of poetry, Chasers of the Light, became a National best-seller on a variety of lists. It sold enough copies to be 4th on the New York Times Best-sellers list too, but due to weirdnesses and payolas I don’t even need to get into, they decided to not place it there. I remember talking to my publisher at the time, to my agent, and hearing that they didn’t know where to put it, they didn’t know what to call it. Was it poetry? Was it something new? The New York Times, ironically, then came to a book signing in the Upper East Side in New York and wrote an article about it called “Web Poets’ Society: New Breed Succeeds In Taking Verse Viral,” that I believe was the very first time the word “Instapoet” was launched into the world. *I could be wrong, it could have come before, but I think this is the first I saw it published.* Here’s how they said it:

“The rapid rise of Instapoets probably will not shake up the literary establishment, and their writing is unlikely to impress literary critics or purists who might sneer at conflating clicks with artistic quality. But they could reshape the lingering perception of poetry as a creative medium in decline.”

Ahh there’s the rub. Because I wasn’t part of the literary establishment, my writing “is unlikely to impress literary critics or purists who might sneer at conflating clicks with artistic quality.” And you know what, that’s fine. That’s more than fine, as I’ve always associated so much more intimately with the riff raff than the high society. For me, it’s never been about the triple letter scores of the words you choose, the paper stock your books are printed on, the indecipherability of what you’re actually trying to say. It’s not about what some professor in some school discerns from the words you’ve written, not about the awards or even the number of books you’ve sold. Poetry, to me, as I have said time and time again, is much simpler, it’s “Taking an ache, and making it sing.” If someone understands the lyrics to that haunting song you’re singing, if someone feels understood by the words you’ve written, THIS to me, is poetry.

I understand the idea that poetry is an elevation, and should be. The problem I have, is I don’t always believe it needs to be an elevation of only language. Shouldn’t it also be about the elevation of emotion, of the experience, of that aching? Isn’t it poetry, taking some random bit of mundanity that plagues the existence of every person on this planet, and elevating it to a point of a slight gasp and punch to the gut that says, “YES, THIS, EXACTLY THIS!?” Isn’t it often harder to say something that people relate to so deeply that they feel seen, often for the first time, to condense down a thought from big to little, to make the indescribable actually digestible and to make sense of the senselessness that can surround us?

Isn’t that poetry too? Isn’t it ALL poetry?

Part of the problem is in the industry itself, as poetry traditionally has never sold a great number of books. The NYT article was quick to almost use my book sales against me, comparing my initial print run to that of National Book Award winner Luise Glück and “putting it into perspective” by showing my run at 100,000 copies more. Who cares? Isn’t all this just creating a further divide between people all doing the same thing, all trying to achieve the same end? Aren’t we all just trying to clear out the noise and nonsense that lives in our own minds, aren’t we all just trying to make sense of the world we see with the words that feel right to us?

I love reading poetry, I love a lot of poets, from the natural rhythm and stunning feel of Ada Limón, to the unbelievable activism, lyricism, and ferocity of

Andrea Gibson

, to the raw honesty and beauty of

Maggie Smith

, to

Maya C. Popa

, to

Pádraig Ó Tuama

, to Mag Gabbert, to Liz Berry with her accent making her words music, to my fellow Autistic slam poet brother-from-another-mother

Ash Raymond James

, though he too has been called Instapoet, has been reduced to something less because he chooses to share his work on social media, too.

Don’t we all, now? Everyone I mentioned above shares work on social media, connects with the people who love their words everywhere from Tik Tok to Instagram, Facebook to YouTube, and what a beautiful thing that is. To create a place for intimacy between those who write the words and those who love the words, what a beautiful thing.

In the end, why does it matter, and why does that electric horse wire exist at all? Isn’t there room in the word for all of us? Isn’t Poetry big enough to house a million voices from a million places? Aren’t we all suffering? Don’t we all deserve to voice our words, no matter how we choose to share them, what words we use to do so?

As my poem, or instapoem, or whatever you wish to call it, above says,

The poetry is the aching, the empty pit I cannot seem to fill

and it’s always been this.

Call it what you wish, lock me outside the gates if you need to, but I’ll keep writing, and all that matters is once it’s written, I no longer have to carry it. It’s no longer a burden I must bear. If anyone, anywhere, reads it and feels that whoosh of air from their lungs as they finally feel seen, finally feel understood, even better. Even better.

That’s poetry, to me.

Keep your capital P, I’ll stay lowercase forever.

To distill an ache,

reduce it to swallowable.

This is poetry.

Haiku on Life by Tyler Knott Gregson

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