Jack Baruth, in a review for a novel called Fish Tales, which I likely never will read, says:
It takes no great skill to scribble nonsense and expect your reader to imbue the required meaning. That’s how you get the “poetry” of Rupi Kaur or Maya Angelou.
Me-ow! says a poet who is also not a fan, having read Milk and Honey a couple of years ago, and I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings in college (not a lot of Angelou’s poetry, though, and not running out to get some).
Of course, this same poet (that is, moi, he said, somehow mispronouncing the word by putting a consonant on the end) banged out a ten line poem yesterday based on a first and last line that came pretty easily to him yesterday at the coffee shop (total cost of poem: $0 because someone “paid it forward” and bought me a cuppa and a pastry, a gesture I did not myself carry on–wait, the poet is using the third person here, so he meant he did not himself carry on). Where was he? He got lost in the parentheses and hand-coded HTML tags. Oh, yes.
A poem which kinda looks like a TL;DR version of my longer “Estate Sale Stases” poem. Must be just that I’m banging on a single theme lately. Might have to name the eventual chapbook Droughts and Stases or something. More catchy than Coffee House Memories which is only 8,966,530 spots behind Milk and Honey in the Amazon’s Best Sellers list. But: ABC Books might have sold the three copies I left up there last year. So I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.
