The Penury of Instapoetry; or, A Case for Reform in the Arts

There have been a few articles to pop up over the past month or so, mushroom-like, all focussing on the faddish popularity of ‘Instapoetry.’
Not really a user of the ‘gram myself, I only know about this situation second-hand, but coverage of its main stars and personalities has kept me at least current with the situation. For a while, I was trying to figure out a way of covering both the developing situation and doing service to the film in my recent review of Paterson. I ultimately decided to separate the two out into distinct articles – the subject matter of each has significant overlap, but I figured it would do them both a disservice to yoke them together, not to mention making a rather unwieldy piece itself.

Three articles, then – this one, published in a poetry journal decrying the lack of craft exhibited by this new breed, this one, hosted on the left-wing kulturkritik and variety site, ‘the Baffler,’ which echoes several points from the first while also adding a critique of Instagram itself, and this last one, poking fun at the malcontents and dark, misogynist underbelly of the scene.

Without having much skin in the game, I’m generally in agreement with much of what is presented in those first two articles – by no means am I a well-versed consumer of Instapoetry, but what little I have seen is fairly trite. The big names of the genre – Rupi Kaur, Hollie McNish, R.M. Drake, etc. – are moving vast numbers of units and making bank on banalities. Critics who up until a few years ago derided just this sort of cynical, thin gruel are now hypocritically bigging it up, knowing that there’s gold in that trough. The painstakingly-manicured image sold by Instagram (“the nicest place online”), built into its very architecture, is both escapist and harmful. Profiting from the usurpation of the spot-light, presenting oneself as the spokesperson for a whole block of society to the exclusion of other, more disenfranchised voices is loathsome behaviour. All these things need to be exposed and upbraided.

But I do think the articles, particularly the first, go too far in places.

The author of the first piece is a poet herself, and, while I’m certainly not possessed of the anti-expert, populist fervour so prevalent these days, it is somewhat difficult to smell no hint of sour grapes here. To her credit, she sticks more to critiquing the (lack of) craft than the remuneration, but it is a bit close to the knuckle. The effort to bracket poetry under the definition of that which  ‘has typically been to rid language of cliché,’ seems like a bit of a reach, and this retroactive defining hooks into a larger, discipline-level issue.

Perhaps because of its materials, its less-easily-commoditised nature, poetry as a form has done a rather poor job these last 150 years at popularising itself, and that has to be laid at the feet of the poets. I’m a big proponent of the democratisation of the arts, and certainly have a vested interest, low-born scum that I am, but the way it’s been handled thus far is woefully insufficient. As was ever going to be the case, profit-motive being the key factor that it is. More to the point, though, the opening up of the various practices of art, the increasing of accessibility, has taken the wrong route. Rather than raising the populace up (the time- and materials-intensive method) we’re seeing, as is the case with so much Instapoetry, the debasement of the form. Art is everywhere being lowered to mere object, fit only for immediate, unreflective consumption.

Within poetry itself, I’m not opposed to the shift away from regimented rhyme form or scansion. These were themselves relative late-comers, artificially grafted onto English-language works during the Renaissance and a wide rift from the previous, Anglo-Saxon alliterative. But by allowing for free-form, rhythmically unbound “verse” to be considered poetry, there is the obvious risk that any old doggerel could make a stand against genuinely well-crafted work on equal footing. By not spending the time to educate the public properly, it’s unreasonable to expect the average person to have the tools to discern good from bad. Then again, the belief that poetry in particular is suffering from this might be wide of the mark – it’s not as if music education is especially wide-spread, and any recognition or conception of the “superiority” of “classical” music as against modern pop might just be down to the form (orchestra, performance hall, old) rather than an understanding of the intricacies of composition. And it is certainly not the case that all music called ‘classical’ is superior to everything referred to as ‘pop’ – far from it, in fact. There needs to be something altogether more thorough.

This is where the situation overlaps with Paterson, dealing as it does with a non-professional poet. The film is built on whimsy, as so much of Jarmusch’s work is. The idea of a bus-driving poet is a bit stilted, doesn’t sit comfortably with standard assumptions – something so effete as poetry is not the usual passion of your red-blooded man. Given the sheer number of people living in America, I suppose the odds are that something akin to a Paterson does exist, but I get the feeling that that’d be a rarity.
There are a few scenes of Paterson at work in his basement, where he has put together a small library and writing area. The house he lives in with his wife is, while not austere, indicative of their class position, and so it is a statement of his intent that Paterson has put this space together. In another of the film’s unexplored little details, we see a framed photo of the protagonist in military uniform. It’s not stated directly, but with so many in America joining the army in lieu of pursuing higher education (as if it were a choice), it’s reasonable to think that the character is entirely self-educated when it comes to appreciation for and interaction with the arts. Paterson is a very unusual man, then, but does he have to be? Is it possible to conceive of a world where more are given the tools to do this for themselves? It doesn’t seem so far-fetched.

There is a place for entry-level art in our world, as it exists. Something needs to be approachable enough that the unschooled individual bites and takes hold. The real shame of it is that the lowest rung is often, perhaps because of this mass-appeal, the most rewarded, whether it be Rupi Kaur or Metallica or what have you. Insta-poetry is still relatively novel, but it’s been around long enough that one would hope to see the widespread popularity of the form benefitting older, established (worthier?), examples of poetry. Unfortunately, this isn’t the case. As far as units sold and money earned are concerned, the trite banalities continue to dominate the market, sucking up ever-more of publisher’s attention and effort. This mirrors a situation playing out in film – the argument goes that the big ‘tent-pole’ productions, the brainless, formulaic moneymakers, are a necessary evil if we are to see more interesting, experimental work produced by larger firms with sizeable budgets. Unfortunately, this is simply untrue – the companies, by their very structure, are risk averse, and demonstrably go for the safer bet of the reboot or cliché rather than taking a chance on something new almost every time. The culture of the quarterly return is incompatible with artistic endeavour.

Returning to the craft for a moment, I think there is an important point made in the first article, a quote from a critic named, ironically enough, Paterson – “Serious poets, I should say, don’t start off amateurs, but apprentices – just like any other vocation.” There is something to be said for intentionality, the approach to an activity that shapes the way it is performed. You can certainly machete your way into virgin jungle, carving your own path and achieving your own goals, but it then becomes rather disingenuous to claim for yourself an existing mantle. There are things that must be learned, methods that must be acknowledged, even if they are ultimately set aside. You can’t break the rules without knowing them first.

Can elitism and snobbery be pulled apart? I suspect so – as the article points out, nobody thinks it’s snobbish to expect our doctors or our engineers to have achieved a high degree of excellence. Why is it bad that our poets (or our musicians) should be held to that? A large part of the problem, I think, is the reactionary, fawning attitude towards ‘talent,’ a holdover from the Romantic period with its Byronic heroes and myths of causa sui masterpieces (you’re on blast, Coleridge). Bach, inarguably one of the finest composers, looked upon himself as an artisan, and approached music as a craftsperson, recognising that his success came from hard graft and not because he was possessed of some special genius. This isn’t a bad example to follow.
That the most celebrated artists are currently held up as something distinct, their successes stemming from some inborn quality rather than a recognition of the work that they do, is pernicious and obviously offensive. Plus, just like our tent-pole narrative, it’s just not true. If the language we use in discussing our artists can be stripped of this obscurantism, I suspect we can have a recognition of quality without seeming to close off the heights of success. But this would also require that overhaul in education – the ladder to achievement must at least be indicated, if not necessarily supplied directly.

The proposed changes to the culture of poetry, and art more widely, would likely ameliorate much of what is covered in the third article. The behaviour described, that of ‘lit-bros’ complaining of some manner of conspiracy or cabal, inevitably made up of women, keeping them from material success in the same way as so many other Insta-poets, really finds its roots in the general culture of misogyny that chokes our society and would ultimately have to be solved at that level. However, if we had a more transparent approach towards what it means to be a ‘good poet,’ this avenue of grievance would be closed to them, and the toxic developments from it – the emboldening of other reprehensible channels – would be stymied. It would be difficult to build a case against some shadowy, gynocentric editorial board (incidentally, also ‘imaginary’ – far and away the majority of such boards are heavily stacked towards the white and male) when the argument stalls on the obvious lack of quality in the materials. Or so we hope. Delusion runs deep.

Obviously, all this is unlikely to come about amidst society’s fixation on homo economicus. With liberal education under full-scale assault, the very idea that human life has worth beyond the role it plays in the GDP constantly undercut, it seems a bit rich to be calling for an overhaul in arts instruction, especially in such a nebulous manner as the above. But, how else do we push back against the rising econometric tide? If we had genuine control over our society, wresting control of life away from the insanity of the Invisible Hand, it would be a simple thing to implement. As is, this will likely have to be a bottom-up effort, a struggle of inches and feet. If it is genuinely accomplished, though, it may be that small changes won there, in the aesthetic world, make the larger victory in the wider world more feasible. Changed minds open up different worlds of possibility.

Jim Jarmusch’s Paterson: Ben Swolo goes to the Emotional Side

Like a significant slice of the globe, we caught the latest Star Wars over the holiday break. It hit the right buttons at the time, for what is really just a kids action piece – we’ve fallen into a bit of a tradition with this third-wave Star Wars series along with another couple, one group picking up the tickets for everyone on a rotating basis, then having a bit of a gab afterwards. We all walked away from this one fairly pleased, and only on thinking it over afterwards did the more egregious issues surface, as is usually the way of these things.

Given the rather cut-and-dry characterisation in Star Wars VII, I was hoping (with little reason) that there would be more available for the actors in the next film. It was an improvement – the characters had been established, and the narrative hinged, even if rather clumsily, on presenting the possibility of a grey character in Kylo Ren. But, as is ever the case with the monomyth, VIII is a story told in broad strokes – not so much characters as archetypes.

Thus, on the nearer side of Christmas, we finally got around to watching Jim Jarmusch’s Paterson (2016), the story of a bus-driving poet named Paterson, from the city of Paterson, New Jersey. Given the subject matter and the possibilities hinted at in the trailer, I was more than interested. Thus far I’ve avoided watching Girls as a matter of principle, so I thought, here might be an example of the actor Adam Driver could be, in a work that was actually palatable.

Accolades aplenty

Unfortunately, this is not that film.

Paterson is a very Jarmusch film – if you’ve seen any of his previous work, you know precisely what I mean: heavy emphasis on style, with a pacing that allows for the slow accretion of meaning to build, lachrymal. Unafraid of extended scenes without dialogue. Patterns recur without exterior development – following the relaying of a dream, Paterson continually meets pairs of twins – never explained, never developed beyond their mere, quirky presence. Scenes, interactions, are repeated with near-exactitude, allowing for a lateral development following small tweaks to the running. The repetitious nature of the film does a good job at underscoring the rhythms of Paterson’s working day, and, ultimately his life. It’s not necessarily tedium, no grinding trudge, as, as with most other things, the character accepts the monotony and the individual oddities with an easy-going calm.

And that’s kind of the issue, at least for what I was hoping for from the film. The performance isn’t flat, with moments where you can see Driver holding a mounting anxiety or a hot despair just in check, but it is muted. Those emotions never rise above the surface, and we are left with a film that is more like a photograph than a dynamic arc. The plot doesn’t really develop so much as follow; a week in the life – certainly, there is a climax of sorts, but, as the final act closes, it feels as if we are back at the start, that the resolution sets the clock backwards, rather than builds off of what came before.

Other characters are mainly pastiches or stereotypes – the hen-pecked publican, the besotted, broken hearted actor, the morose colleague. Even Paterson’s partner, Laura, accorded far-and-away the most screen time after the protagonist, is pretty one-note as something just this-side of the manic pixie dream girl. They are all there to play a role, though – the repetition of scenes, with ever so slightly shifted interactions, gives the feeling that this is much more Music With Changing Parts than it is Koyaanisqatsi – a slow swell that changes without the viewer really noticing. “Jagged” is not the word for Paterson.

I recall the score seeming slightly out-of-sync with the rest of the piece – much darker than the general tenor, lending a feeling of unease. Granted, I wouldn’t describe any of the characters as especially ‘triumphalist’ – even Laura, the most positive in demeanour of the lot, has an air of the slightly, poignantly, cracked – but neither is this some Loachian social-realist castigation. The meditative shots of post-industrial New Jersey cityscape, the circular lives of its denizens, are examined for the most part without an agenda – merely viewed, rather than marshalled. If there is tragedy here, it is a retiring one.

What of the poetry, then? This is actually one of the better parts of the film, by my lights. We see Paterson jotting down thoughts at various points – before he starts his route, whilst on lunch, whenever he can steal a quiet moment. Generally, our view of the writing is accompanied by a voiceover by Driver, reading back to us what he is laying on the page. Crucially, this isn’t just some stream-of-consciousness, first-draft-and-we’re-done deal – we see revisions being worked through, and improvements being made. A nod to the presence of genuine craft. By the second act, the references to William Carlos Williams are coming in fast – he is Paterson’s favourite poet, the city of Paterson was his home town, as well, and his body of work, and its following, play a key part in the resolution of the film’s primary crisis. Paterson’s own poetry resembles Carlos Williams’, though generally it isn’t as good – which is not to knock the film or Jarmusch, who wrote it – the lyricism should be looked for in the cinematography, not the materials it uses to get there. The portrayal of a blue-collar, autodidact poet is much more important than what he actually writes.

And, for all its bracketed delivery (the more I think about it, the more I’m reminded of how Richard Dreyfuss described using lithium as medication – chopping off the peaks and troughs, a more regulated bandwidth), this portrayal comes through. Without ever dipping into the maudlin or the precious, the film argues the case that you don’t have to be some ivory-tower aesthete or high-born toff to both (as if needed to be said) have a richly emotional internal life and to be able to articulate it. Though we’ve had fair warning about being a hero, a working-class poet doesn’t seem like such a bad thing to be.

All in all, an enjoyable watch, even if it didn’t supply what I was hoping for. If you’re looking for something soothing, meditative – hungover Sunday afternoon fare, or the like – this’ll fit the bill nicely. However, even sticking with Jarmusch, I’d say you’d be better served by Only Lovers Left Alive: a more sumptuous film, in my opinion.

The Superior Vampire Romance (RIP Anton, taken too soon)

Poetry Workshop

Attended a poetry workshop earlier today at the Fitz, across town. Harvested some of the more reasonable products below – four in response to artworks I’ve included (doubled up on the Rodin), and the last a prompt. Rough works, but hopefully of some service.

Large Clenched Hand
(Grande main crispée)

Rodin

Vitality expressed in its
moment of expungence.
Pain, cast in metal.
The body radiating
its emotion, its anger
and its revolt,
using nothing more than
itself.

Masculine, this could be
the hand of Laocoön
as he grapples with
the serpent coils of
his pride-wrought fate.

Ah! Pride!
Whomever this hand
belongs to, it is a
proud man.
The despair, the anger
expressed in the rictus
clench could signal
no less
than a will
-a prideful will-
roundly thwarted.

 

David and Goliath

Degas

Dun, nude, loose.
Your colours, the olive green,
the dirty taupe,
evoke your crude life,
your barbaric
brutish existence.

There could never have
been honour won that
day.
Honour requires grace,
and there is no grace to
be found
in the rude, shifting
muck of your lives.

 

Large Clenched Hand
(Grande main crispée)

Rodin

Alive!
Even in My agony,
Beset by the cruelties of
the World
You will not take Me
I refuse this fate
I despite your arrows
of Inevitability

Reckon!
I am a Man
and though You
would snuff Me out,
You cannot deny that I have been
Alive!

 

A street, possibly in Port-Marly, 1875-77

Sisley

I see your view
the view that you
moulded, filtered and
regurgitated.
And I deem it good.
Masterful, even. Yet,
it is not the skill
of rendering the sky,
nor the evocation
of the shadow,
nor any of the many other
elements of quality that
make me pause.

No.

It is simply
the way you write
your name.
The clumsiness of it.
Slap-dash.
Work-a-day.

Did you, too,
regret the ugliness
of your hand?
Did you
look on that text
and grow sad
at its lack of finesse?

Six characters, rough-written,
express more
than the painting entire.
Just as you reworked
what you saw, so do I
import my own assumptions.
But,
whatever phantasms I conjure,
whatever gross errors I commit,
I am left
with that sliver of Truth.
You and I,
We are brothers.

 

Sandbox

2×8’s
screwed to one another,
hanging together loosely, unevenly
set atop flags of repurposed concrete.
A shoddy affair, made in an amateur manner
but fit to purpose.
Good enough to hold back the spilling
sands.
You can remember the damp grit of it, even
now –
you can still feel it in your mouth, that
not-quite-earthy taste,
that roughness you knew,
even then, was doing
damage to your teeth.
How many hours did you spend there,
building imaginary worlds
which, god-like, shifted to your every whim?
Shifted, like so much sand.
Solitary hours – yes, there were times
you were joined, where your pantheon
doubled, trebled – but it was never as
good as when there was but a
single will – a direction unfettered
by compromise.
A tyranny enlightened
and self-contained.
Contained by a set of 2×8’s
screwed to one another
and hanging together,
loosely.

The Start

The Start

The early days
where we are tentative:
Each with diffident regard
for the other – not yet honest,
still wrapped up in the allure of the foreign.
At arms length we eye one-another,
unsure of the way ahead.

Easily abashed, we shy from
the bold and dangerous claims of our hearts
their true pealing tones.
But,
when hinted at,
or fallen into
and –
met with words of support!

Ah, then the rush of emotion;
the desire to forge new commonalities;
to root out the remaining similarities;
it is strong.

The growth of it, it depends on
moments like this
where we rush roughshod
over our own timidity.
Where we drop our guard,
forgetting the earnest hopes
and desires
and bare ourselves.
Self forgotten in a moment of
vitality.

Only this way can we grow –
grow to be true friends.

The Modality of Illness

The Modality of Illness

What does it mean to be ill?
To be dying?
What is the meaning of violence?

How can one tell when the shift from
dying to dead happens,
from health to un-health?
When it comes time to hit to mean it,
how do you avoid pulling the punch?

Where does the sickness enter in,
and how can it be known,
in the moment,
that you shift from living to dying?

Life doesn’t happen
discretely.
While the time-slice might
be binary
the lived experience is continua.

You can’t switch between the two,
completely in one or the other.
So, how do you effect the shift?
Our media, our lessons, our culture
provide no easy solution.

At our bases, we are all
still Parmenedean.
The act of the will
is all,
and allows of no
gradation.

At point A
a thing is 0,
and point B
a thing is 1.
And the gulf between the two,
unbridgeable.
Where is the room for life?

 

 

Work Poems

A few poems I’ve had sitting around for a while. Thought I might as well post them. Some are newish, others I don’t even recall writing, but they all have a similar through-line. In no particular order:

7:48

 

Restive.
Filled with energy,
but eager to return to bed.

Feeling alive,

yet sickly – on a tilt

with my seinous too full.

Caffeine taking hold

with the work-day yawning before me

eager to swallow all my liveliness.

Agitated

I know not whether to shout the start of the day

or to crawl back beneath the sheets.

 

Of a Sunday

 

It is a small thing.
Inconsequential, really,

but the immediacy of it,

on the day,

makes it loom large in the eye.

 

Time runs quicker,
and the running, with the

rush of speed and compression of air,

adds to the stress.

Each hour attended to by

a mounting frustration,

itself a source of deprivation.

 

Finally, Night seeps in.
Night is a thin fabric, fit only

for the savouring of that

bitterest of rumens,

wasted Time.

 

Soon enough, the body is thrown back in.

And the mind, forever(?) shackled to it,

is dragged to the bottom just as inexorably.

Now, the regret comes

and with it,

the souring of future opportunities,

ushered in, compelled, by the

required perspective.

 

As we all know,

as we all know.

Time is merely relative,

and the experience of it,

it’s up to us.

How, then, to shake ourselves free,

and live as we wish to live?

Post Work Partum

 

The desire to crawl up inside yourself.

Not tired, but too burned through to care

hungry

even though you know you’ve eaten enough

Strung out on caffeine, jittery, short

Even the internet has run out of new things

and you’re

surrounded by people

with their inanities

and their posturing

and you just

can’t

fucking care about it all anymore.

Friday Afternoon

 

The frustration of

scenes, and descriptions

and interactions left

uncaptured for want of

foresight or strength of

memory.

The irritation of

plans and stories

and plots conjured on

the cusp of sleep, filling

you with excitement and

energy, only to fade

to ridiculousness, to

inexpressibility, to the

mundane by morning light.

The ever-present anxiety

at being illegitimate, at

wearing un-earned names,

at pinning too much of

yourself on something

ephemeral, on something

that doesn’t fit you.

Vigil

Vigil

I first saw them

around midsummer, walking home

in the early evening shade.

They stood, huddled together,

aside from the flow of traffic.

Not quite dark enough yet,

their candles didn’t cast much light.

Everyone else seemed to ignore them,

so I did too, despite their queer appearance.

 

The second time I saw them, their numbers

had grown.

Four now, all dressed similarly,

with the same candles as before.

Still no one seemed to pay them attention.

And so neither did I.

I was late to a meeting

with a friend.

 

I guess I’d catch them

every two or three days

over the course of the next

several months.

They never seemed to say anything,

or interact with anyone.

Just stood there,

with their candles,

and their dark clothes,

and their cryptic sign

saying:

Remember Ma-Ga

and D.S.

 

Winter’s set in now,

and the dark comes early,

and stays late.

I haven’t seen them for a while,

but

whenever I walk past

the corner they used to fill,

I think on how

their candles would flare brightly.

People would see them,

now.

Swelter

Swelter

 

The storied sailor may be right,

and Hell is a cold, icy ocean trench

that saps your will and chokes your heart;

I wouldn’t pretend to know.

 

Despair, though –

Despair is hot.

 

The heat of an over-burdened body

The heat of all the rage and impotence

clutched close and tight.

The heat of a breath held too long,

after the swirling eye-spots

have blotted out vision

and the lungs shudder to bursting.

The heat of a fatal fever-

too extreme to heal,

too strong to dissipate.

 

Despair has the heat of friction,

born of all the wasted efforts

and the rued missed chances,

and the stupid, wanton mistakes.

 

The heat smothers,

blanketing you with its weight.

It surrounds you even while

it comes from inside,

till the tears start from your bloodshot eyes and

moans, undirected, start from your parched throat.

Yes, Hell might be cold,

but Despair,

Despair is hot.

Identity

Identity

 

Ex-communist

Student

Male

Writer

Son

Aesthete

Brother

Caucasian

Husband

Feminist-Ally

Canadian

Socialist

Friend

Expatriate

Agnostic

Cis

Millennial

Pescetarian

Musician

 

None of these things

are Me

Published?

Poem published in the April 2 edition of the Cambridge News