Why is that shit a worldwide bestseller? Her poetry is shit, 95% of the pages is empty...

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Imagine being an adult and doing a "roses are pretty but they have thorn" metaphor

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Didn't Shopenhauer basicaly do the same with his hedgehog metaphor?

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Fuck it's even worse than I thought

Absolutely degenerate shit

Girls being girls

No, his idea was deeper and not at all like this shit

Yeah, but that was 160 years ago

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how?

This is dogshit
Pope, Whitehead, Dickinson, Yeats, and Goethe are rolling in their graves.

Congrats user you’ve discovered that the average human has objectively bad taste in all art food and personal activities

correction: it's post-post-ironic

because it's woke and she's brown

Holy fucking kek my sides this cant be real

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I work at a used bookstore and it's painful how well her books still do. rh Sin and Lovelace are equally as terrible and seem to be growing in popularity because of Kaur.

>it’s woke
This has become code for “I’m ignorant, keep it moving” to me. I rejoice when I hear this because I know nothing of value is being exchanged.

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This. My father only eats fast food and shitty sit down restaurants and when I cook hommade food he thinks it is just okay. He microwaved the hamburger I made him because it wasn't well done enough. Plebs are the majority.

anyone who dont know that book would tell you that if you want to be poor become a poet but now you can tell them that it is possible to be a rich poet today

>she got multiple book deals and famous from this absolute drivel
>normalfags’ brains operate on such a low level that this is considered as deep as Yeats or Rimbaud
Life isn’t worth living

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>Why is that shit a worldwide bestseller?
1. She is a woman.
2. She is non-white.

That's the recipe for a best seller. There was that one guy who got rejected dozens of times because he was a white male, and as soon as he sent his work under a fake name (a Chinese female name), bang, he got published. It's that easy.

>mispelling Schopenhauer-senpai's name
You don't belong here. And the hedgehog's dilemma was a whole different matter. It was not about "pretty" things having "thorns", it was about the paradox of people being unable to be alone and yet being unable not to hurt each other when they get close. The "roses have thorns" metaphors is usually used to signify taht something attractive and apparently harmless can actually hurt you; women like to think of themselves as roses with thorns in order to flatter themselves twofold: first for being pretty, and secondly for being "strong" and "empowered". Women like to think of themselves as "dangerous" and capable of fighting back, yet any man who were to express a similar belief about himself would be an instance of "toxic masculinity".

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LOL

If women couldnt vote Id find these cute and inoffensive.

It’s marketed towards teenage thots and Facebook moms that need something “””””deep””””” to post on social media so they can get “YAAAAS BITCH” replies

BLOOD
from my vagina

I knew a chick who liked this book. Told her to check out Byron, Hafez, and even just good ol' Shakespeare. She may as well have burned this trash after lol

Some stupid trans bitch had a rupi kaur quote in her grindr profile and she got mad at me for not picking her up from the casino bc she was "stuck"

Can't tell if this is from the book or not.

Pretty sure the left is real but the right isn't

Ever since they'd taken to top to tail sleeping Rupi's feet taunted Megan's racing insomnia, recalling sunny dunes or butterscotch ice cream, Megan imagined Rupi's skin toasting then buttering itself until glistening and silken, her toes' cleavages also always immaculate, like you'd expect in a spirit or paranormal's presence, like she never became dirty or like it couldn't adhere to her Indo-angelic flesh. The ambient moon and clock lights lit Rupi's slumbering feet a deep purple. But the trait upon which Megan's voracious fixation feasted most frequently was the mottled littoral edges of where Rupi's caramelized flesh faded, feathery into her ghostly soles, like her sultry flesh tones were poured upon the rest of her body and dappled by a Goddess' brush into those variegated sugary edges that reminded Megan of the crust of a corner slice of blondie brownies resting in a puddle of pale strawberry ice cream, roseate and alabaster. You could see Goddess brushwork in Rupi's soles, for sure.

Megan always wanted to bite the supple flesh of Rupi's soles and bided most of her time with Rupi in lurid anticipation of her forthcoming permission for Megan to indulge however she very much needed.

Most could only look upon Rupi's feet as gazers, never given Megan's privileges of smell, touch and taste. Rupi's tendency to advertise, to waft and taunt with her feet as powerful feminine instruments, sinisterly criss-crossing and wriggling her sprinkle doughnut flip-flops, before slowly plucking one from her feet, setting it beneath her reclined poolside chair before switching crossed legs and unshodding her other foot, scrunching and flexing her feet in routines of pliability and shapeshifting. Her shameless shows have triggered no shortage of errant pool volleyball serves and spilt Cabana drink service trays to say nothing of the countless causal collisions of server and boyfriend or husband into unsuspecting shin-height chairs and tables, sending more than one Mai Tai or Miami Vice erupting from their wide-rimmed acrylic glasses in bright contrails of fruit juices and pulped ice, the rest of her body sporting the aureate sear of a creature that thrived in the sun's celestial nurture and so kindled shines back upon those of us who catch the slightest glance of her, because that is all her lure needs, your most furtive or accidental glance, and if spying then her sole's milky crescents, their oil and perspiration-washed ripples and pools, beaming in the poolside visual fest of floral and animal-themed bikinis and sculpted glutes and abdominals and calves and breasts and still Rupi's feet loomed clearly paramount, regal, preponderant, aloof, unmistakeable, the conspicuously tootsied siren earning the puzzled and cross stares of spouses and girlfriends peering above lowered sunglasses, whose own feminine intuition and cartographic sense of competing sexual creatures quickly triangulated the cause of their male's wayward-gazed attentional accidents, scanning for topless sunbathers, especially disproportionate bosoms and waist ratios, notably stringy or sheer swimwear, even perhaps a conspicuously attractive male that might distract as a certain rival in the quest for poolside seduction, and detecting inevitably the highly conspicuous foot goddess, Rupi, waving her sole's wrinkly ivory strudel in the most innocently persistent bounce, all the while reading or seemingly asleep or in a sun-induced repose, feeling behind her closed lids the gradual and inevitable realiagnment of the entire social space as her feet's beauty stood like monolithic henges that made all other women seem silly and unserious feminine exercises, who in turn hated Rupi's feet, loathing them with sour glouring hate, hiding their own feet beneath the flattering translucence of the pool's cerulean water or else underneath towels or tucked back into their shoes, feeling they needed the sporty or flirty patterns of their fashionable footwear to withstand any comparison to Rupi's own immaculate, heavenly feet.

Rupi Kaur's poetry is flat-out terrible, identical in every way to any 16 year-old's overwrought "profound spoken word" drivel, her drawings are little better, and the fact that she's sold over a million copies and become #1 on the New York Times bestseller list doesn't change the fact that any decent pop song has better words. One's subject matter doesn't exempt one's skill from criticism.
But I sadly agree that she is the perfect poet for our times: her poems are mostly indiscernible from the millions of cheesy affirmations clogging our social media, except that she carefully signs her name to each cloying profundity: brief, shallow, so utterly tailored to her target audience that they amount to flattery, even in the sense that most of the audience could do as well themselves. This is Rumi for the Instagram age. This is poetry for people who have never read real poetry and would hate it if they did try to read it.
So why should this bother anyone? Well, by way of comparison, Dionne Brand’s 1990 volume of poetry, No Language Is Neutral, sold around 6,000 copies, a remarkable number, even with a Governor General’s Award nomination. Rupi Kaur's first collection of poems has sold over a million copies so far. In fact, more people bought 'milk and honey' than bought all other poetry books by all other Canadian poets (living or dead) in the past few years. If that fact doesn't bother you, there is no problem.

Does anybody have that really passive-aggresive article about her being an Instagram poet

Everytime i see posts like this I can keep my sanity thinking about how she is doing this both ironically and for money
if this is genuine literature is beyond saving

Remove all the hair off your body, you will regret it; Keep all the hair on your body, you will also regret it; Remove, or keep the hair on your body, you will regret it either way.

The right one is actually clever as fuck

>Too stupid to say "lips."
Dammit Rupi! You talentless whore!

Because people happen to like things you do not.

Based Kierkaur

Pretty much this.
She made for good hype material by ticking off the right boxes.
There was a white guy who nearly got hyped a few years back by pretending to be Chinese.

>There was a white guy who nearly got hyped a few years back by pretending to be Chinese
Any more on this? How did people find out? Was he obliged to do public appearances?

i can smell this image

sounds like you have an opinion and want a bunch of people to agree with you
obviously it's not that good, but your thread is a lot worse
kys

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Smash the typewriter with your nose.

What the fuck. This is literally just an anthology of Facebook posts from teen-aged girls. Why the fuck does this exist?

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kek

Can someone recommend some books about poetry as a form so I can know just why I find these so bad?

The Ode Less Traveled

Go on goodreads and check out the 5 star reviews. You will not be disappointed, it's an absolute gold mine.

I honestly find her work inspirational. This is a masterclass in con artistry and I wish I could do what she does.

i knew it was bad but i totally forgot how mind boggling retarded this is

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maybe it takes being a woman to appreciate it or something

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Half the reviews are people saying that they know nothing about poetry.

Women were a mistake.

Anybody that thinks their smart because muh freeform or having drawings or how they structure it or some other shit like that can go fuck themselves. Read Yeats and maybe a bit of Wilde.

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It’s marketed for people like the author. Asian or Indian-American young women who feel some sort of lack of belonging and strife surrounding their racial identity, while also living very privileged first world lives. Also they’re stupid.

Holy fucking shit is this for real?

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If I had known these were so easy to make I could have been a billionaire by now

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might as well churn out a dozen while I fuck around after breakfast

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the illustration for this one is kinda clever

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shitposting IRL

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you guys are jealous

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Sort of, like in how I’m jealous I’m not the guy who sold a piece of paper with “this is art” typed on it for $10000. Damn me for having standards, I really shit the bed on living in the 21st century.

yes

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obligatory cheap shot

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Remember the interview with the kafka cover stuff?
thecut.com/2017/10/profile-rupi-kaur-author-of-milk-and-honey.html

Since this is a prime example of bad poetry, what does good poetry look like?

This is the guy. Happened right at the height of the woke clickbait gold rush of 2014-15, so it got a lot of buzz. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Derrick_Hudson

kek

There's a lot of those.Some of my family are Indian, the girls are spoiled brats. More princessy than Burgers believe it or not.