Poetry is one of the oldest forms of literature. The 4,000-year old ‘Epic of Gilgamesh’ is widely considered by scholars to be the first fictional story written in the form of a poem, on over twelve clay tablets.
In the era of social media, Instagram poetry – a form of microfiction – has enabled authors to deliver their work to a massive audience in bite-sized, easy-to-digest pieces using as few words as possible.
This raises a spate of questions. How do these poems compare to ‘traditional’ poems? Should we, as aspiring publishers and editors – and as readers – turn up our noses at work that is oftentimes delivered in a matter of a few hours?
Should the length of a piece of writing and the time it has taken the author to put down their thoughts into words dictate the ‘validity’ or ‘literary worthiness’ of the piece itself? Should we continue to subscribe to the understanding that well-written poetry involves intellectual effort to unpack?
One of the biggest arguments in favour of this short-form poetry is that it has made it easier for people from all walks of life to express themselves on social media platforms like Instagram and Tumblr, where they can share their work with a large readership.
Poetry, and literature in general, has long been the domain of men – specifically white men. Instagram poets – or Instapoets, as they are often called – are mostly women and people of colour. The fast-paced, democratizing, hyper-connected culture of the internet has made it possible for anybody with access to the medium to broadcast their work to the world to read.
Another factor in favour of Instapoets is that their work online has attracted the attention of both indie and big ‘traditional’ publishing houses. The popularity and massive following that these poets garner on social media platforms means that publishing their works comes at a reduced risk of a failed investment for the publishing house. This is a win-win situation for both parties.
The most famous of these authors is, perhaps, Indian-Canadian poet Rupi Kaur. Kaur has a following of 3.1 million followers on Instagram and has two published books. Her first book, milk & honey, sold over 3 million copies, has been translated into more than 35 languages, and was #1 on the New York Times bestseller list.
Others poets who have seen similar success with their published works include Amanda Lovelace, Robert Drake, and Nikita Gill.
The popularity of these works has led to an increase in the sales of poetry books overall. According to BookScan, poetry book sales in 2017 were double those of sales in 2016. Despite this resurgence in the popularity of poetry, the literati remain sceptical.
In a PN Review article titled ‘The Cult of the Noble Amateur’, poet Rebecca Watts writes that the ‘honesty’ and ‘accessibility’ that young female poets are being lauded for are simply ‘buzzwords for the open denigration of intellectual engagement and rejection of craft that characterises their work’.
Heidi Broadhead, managing editor at Wave, says that this increase in sales is a ‘trend in media or publishing, not in poetry’.
In contrast, Kristy Melville, Kaur’s publisher, says: ‘the medium of poetry reflects our age, where short-form communication is something people find easier to digest or connect with’.
However, Watts further argues that there is no point to poetry becoming more popular and the market flourishing, ‘if what we read in poetry books renders us more confused, less appreciative of nuance, less able to engage with ideas, more indignant about the things that annoy us, and more resentful of others who appear to be different from us’.
She also believes that Instapoetry panders to today’s readers’ need for instant gratification that is brought on by shorter attention spans, which are a result of the larger problem of digital media proliferation.
Some defenders of this form of poetry argue that what we like – individually and as a society – and what constitutes quality are different things.
Which brings me back to my initial question: should we, as aspiring publishers, editors and agents, let our personal opinions of this form of poetry dictate our professional decisions?
Personally, poetry isn’t my favourite literary genre. Reading poetry brings back unhappy memories of attempting to decipher Shakespearean verse in Year 10 or Eleven, while being none-too-gently ‘guided’ toward the ‘true’ meaning.
I’m more receptive towards ‘slam’ poetry or ‘spoken word’ poetry because the poets often mean exactly what they say. And so I thought I’d really like Insta poetry. Turns out, I really don’t.
While I don’t like Instapoetry, I do agree with what a fellow Publishing and Communications student: ‘We’re not gatekeepers anymore, so who are we to say that its “good” or “bad” work. As long as it sells and earns the publisher a profit…’
And so I decided to ask some of my fellow graduate students not studying Publishing and Communications at the University of Melbourne their opinion on Instapoetry, to gauge reception. Their answers were varied.
A Master of Arts in English Literature and Language student said, ‘Robert Frost once said, “Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down.” As a Literature student, I refuse to accept Instapoetry as a form of poetry.’
But nearly everybody else I spoke to, who wasn’t studying English Literature, has read Instapoetry and some absolutely love it. A Master in Marketing (Finance) student said, ‘For me, it is one of the easiest ways to digest poetry. The words are direct and the emotions are real. I don’t feel stupid when I read these poems.’
The answers to my questions, then, are inconclusive. Which is not what I was hoping for, but is, to an extent, what I expected.
As with other genres of literature, there are naysayers and takers for Instagram poetry. It will be our duty, as (future) publishing professionals to not let our subjective opinions bar us from providing the wider audience the reading material they want.
Editor. Publishing student. Aspiring bibliophile. 