I don’t speak much of poetry in this space. I’ve made a conscious “business” decision to focus on fiction, straightforward narrative (because we’re spinning narratives all the time—we’re selling ourselves stories always—repeating others’ stories—stories handed to us horizontally and passed down to us vertically). It’s rarer, generally speaking—that is, speaking of/in the general public—to speak in/of poetry.
The other day, I spoke generally of poetry; I spoke of poetry to the general public. In a “thread” (on the social media app Threads) that quickly spread like a virus—that is, the thread went “viral”—I wrote that an infamous Instagram “poet’s” “poetry” “isn’t poetry at all.” I provided five or six points of critique, and at one point compared the collection in question to the work of an industry-celebrated poet whose debut collection navigated similar subject-matter terrain.
While I can’t be certain how many “views” the thread received prior to my deleting it—I deleted it—I can certainly say that my Threads profile received 493K views in the 48 hours the thread was “live.” While I stand by my take, I’ve come to the conclusion, after some soul searching, that I abandoned the thread due to what could only be an uncomfortability in the amount of visibility that it (and I) received.
Quite a while ago, I saw a thread that said something like: going viral is wild because you’ll be sleeping soundly with no idea there’s a thousand ppl going in on you. The thing with going viral is there’s no way to field the comments—the hundreds of people descending upon your post seemingly at war with you. There’s no way for you to properly “defend” your stance from that many “shots” coming directly at you. And the algorithm, trained to show you “related content”—content its calculations, based on topics you’ve previously engaged, predict you’ll be interested in—shows you the subliminal threads, too: threads referencing your thread, posted by people who also want to throw “shots,” but indirectly. Surviving “virality” takes a certain fortitude that, at the time, I cheated myself from exhibiting.
After deleting the thread, I posted a follow-up reaffirming not simply the position I took, but the position I took in taking that position. I had chosen my language carefully, I wrote. I did not use adjectives such as “trash,” for example; I did not assert that the book held no value (the work has proponents, therefore it offers something of value to those who value it).
I should note that there was duality, multiplicity even, in the responses my thread received. As is standard, along with the pooh-pooh-ers were those in the “amen” corner, those who concurred with the analysis I set forth. And a few of these people responded to my secondary thread in an encouraging way. And now that I am on the other-side of it, I realize that my original thread could have, should have, lived. If for nothing more than being an exercise in high visibility—an exercise in accepting that I am “seen,” that people can “see” me, that when I speak there are people who “hear” me. When I write, there are recievers—and plenty. This is the platform I asked to stand on, yes? the lane I am consciously forging for myself, yes? Else, why write at all—why press “publish” at all? What is the point of this pen?
There were fruitful digital exchanges that occurred in the comments of the thread. For example, I had an exchange with another writer who linked an essay she wrote on Instapoetics [1]. Her essay notes the factor of time. Time is, of course, the unit by which we have come to measure our living. Time is the line upon which we have come to mark our who, what, where, and why—we do this by coming to understand our various whens. By understanding when we’re out-side of a when and understanding when we’re in. Poetry allows us to travel inside of a when, even when we find ourselves out of it. By this I mean that poetry enables us to stop time. Invent time. To go back in time. Climb inside of it, stretch out the moment. Feel around (in) the moment—make a true noun of it.
What does this potentiality—this “power of poetry”—make possible if not deep inquiry? Of the implements that the power of poetry—poetry’s potentiality—makes possible, deep inquiry is among them. And the fast fashion “poetry” so accessible on the Internet tends to cheat the deep inquiry that poetry carries in being itself; it has the tendency to cheat time.
Ten or so years ago, I was in a high school classroom where a student told me that I looked like “one of those girls on Tumblr,” to which I cheekily responded, “I am one of those girls on Tumblr.” I say this to say that I’ve been on the Internet. I’ve made archives, constructed online avatars I appointed as evidence of my existence, on various sites, including Tumblr, which at the time seemed to be the foremost home for “internet poetry.” I read “internet poetry.” I produced it. I reblogged it. Reproduced it.
It was the quicker thing to do. Touch-and-go. Easier than occupying the poetry of my life—than spending the time to know the actual poetry of my actual life. It was an outlet for sure; it was a way for me to stay outside of my experience. A way for me to be “productive” in a reductive way. By this I mean it allowed me to stay simple because the surface is simple and the surface was safe. The surface was standard. I could write a “poem” without any true meaning; I could write a “poem” without incorporating any true meaning.
And “truth” is a human thing, of course, specific to the individual. If there are eight billion humans, there are eight billion truths; eight billion unique realities. We get to know our truth(s) by getting to know our selves. We learn our truest truths by learning our truest selves. And if poetry grants us the ability to climb inside the moment of experience—to truly experience the “experience” by staying in it rather than running from it—by stopping time to observe it, or inventing time to observe it—and gather from that when a who, what, where, and more especially a why and how—then poetry is a craft for knowing “true”—for knowing truly. Your affects. Evie Shockley discusses poetry as a craft to sail in [2]. Gorgeous. Poetry as a craft we use to get someplace. Gather our effects and journey. Begin moving. Poetry as a means of transportation. Poetry as moving language. As language that moves.
“Internet poetry” can be a gateway and there is value in that. It was my own gateway. I chose to step through the gate, to try to get someplace. Venture beyond the surface. I began learning the devices—the equipment—their functions, techniques for using them practically. I began learning—am still learning—to steer the craft. To build my own craft to steer. To face my own experience, hold the gaze of my own face reflected in the water. To climb inside the self of my self reflected on the face of the water. To get in the water—I mean in the water—and with/in time, move.
References:
[1] "On Engagement" (2024) by Meredith MacLeod Davidson, which appears in Issue 22.1 of Redivider: a Journal for New Literature. <https://redivider.emerson.edu/on-engagement/>
[2] ""Nothing New: Black Poetic Experiment" by Evie Shockley, which is published in the anthology How We Do It: Black Writers on Craft, Practice, and Skill (2023, ed. Jericho Brown).