The Hubris of the Modern Poet

I shall, in one fell swoop, interpret almost every amateur poet.

They are special, and they are offensive. They have great things to say, and go on and on about themselves and how special they are. True narcissists. They talk about their heroism, their failed love---on and on about how misunderstood they are. They get hundreds of followers who want to be special, too.

They have a hubris, which like many professional athletes is reinforced by their success. Maybe they are special? For, their story of how heroic they are---void of imagination, or theme, or crux, or content---tells all the simplistic story of how greatly misunderstood, how greatly wise they are. Nobody likes them... of course. They have great mysteries to tell us of themselves. They tell us the mystery of themselves, and its end is themselves.

There are a few poets whom this is not the case. And I typically will honor them by interpreting their work. They have heroic deeds. They have things to speak. They have observations, nuanced views, making the strange mundane, or making the mundane strange. They can rightly talk about themselves, for they have learned the subtle art of self-denial. The subtle art of self scathing. No true artist can be a poet unless they have that little man in them telling them and the world their failings.

The poets of modern day sing of themes... like a kaleidoscope being twirled around and around. Telling of failed love---making us horny. Is it truly skill? Is it anything worth writing? They garner their followers---for it seems the pack follows what mostly resembles their own craft. "Should that be successful, then so shall I."  Thus, the Instagram Poetry gets popular, sold for millions of dollars.

I don't mean to sneer, but if the whole interpretation of the poem is just a matter of getting some vague notion of you, I don't think that's a poem. Unless you have made an observation about the real world, or some real conundrum or mystery. Those who are true poets will understand this. The frustration of seeing the flocks tell of how special and offensive they are. No... what I write is offensive. Because I have the audacity to speak.