How Instapoetry Could Redefine What Poetry Is

I must have been living in a cave, because until last week I had never heard of the “poetry” phenomenon known as “Instapoetry”. For those unaware as I was, here are some examples of it:

‘You deserve someone

who makes you feel

like sunshine

on a cloudy day.’

‘I am learning to let go

of the things

that no longer

serve me.

And it’s scary,

but I know

it’s necessary.’

‘Sometimes I think

I’m too much

for the world,

and other times,

I think

I’m not enough.’

Some well-known Instapoets include Rupi Kaur, whose books Milk and Honey and The Sun and Her Flowers have sold millions of copies worldwide. Atticus (a pen name) has published several books, including Love Her Wild and The Dark Between Stars. Charly Cox, whose texts explore self-love and mental health, and whose She Must Be Mad was a bestseller. Courtney Peppernell, who has a large following on Instagram, and is best known for her book Pillow Thoughts about heartbreak and healing. Nikita Gill, whose texts touch on themes of self-love and empowerment, and whose Your Soul is a River had a wide readership. And Cleo Wade, whose book Heart Talk: Poetic Wisdom for a Better Life has been highly praised.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, given the massive internet traffic on platforms like Instagram and TikTok, Instapoetry primarily attracts younger audiences who are drawn to its simplicity, accessibility and brevity. But does this popularity make Instapoetry, with its prose-like tendencies, repetitive themes, lack of ambiguity and linguistic plainness, poetry in any meaningful sense?

One of the most common criticisms of Instapoetry is its simplicity, which veers very close to banality. Written for scrolling and swiping, these quick-consumption “poems” rely on short lines and straightforward language, often resembling platitudinous motivational sayings found in self-help books. This focus on instant gratification sacrifices the complexity and depth that define poetry.

Unlike poetry, which invites readers into a dialogue, challenging them with layered meanings, intricate imagery and nuanced language, Instapoetry delivers single, surface-level ideas. This has left many critics questioning its staying power. A text that can be absorbed in seconds is unlikely to reward deeper contemplation or invite repeated readings.

Instapoetry’s success, as has been noted by some, owes much to its ability to resonate emotionally with its audience. But it could be said that this strength is also its Achilles’ heel. This commodification of emotion often results in a homogeneity of themes (love, heartbreak, self-empowerment etc.) that, while universally relatable, quickly becomes repetitive and stale. Perhaps the reason for this is that many Instapoets might be motivated by the commercial incentives of social media, and so write their texts to gain likes and shares rather than to explore language’s creative potential.

A defining characteristic of Instapoetry is its prose-like language, which often mimics conversational speech. Poetry, on the other hand, uses linguistic techniques—metaphor, allusion and ambiguity—to elevate language into something greater than the sum of its parts. Instapoetry, by contrast, shuns these devices in favour of straightforward statements, resulting in a limitation of poetic meanings. By presenting ideas in a literal, unambiguous manner, it leaves little room for interpretive engagement, denying readers the pleasure of discovering hidden meanings or creating their own narratives, which are arguably one of poetry’s greatest pleasures.

Some might argue that Instapoetry serves as a gateway to poetry. The idea being that readers charmed by its simplicity might then want to explore poetry. However, there is little evidence to suggest that this transition occurs on a meaningful scale. Instead, Instapoetry risks redefining what its readers think is poetry, normalising brevity, simplicity and emotional immediacy as being poetic.

This shift in expectations could have lasting repercussions for the broader poetic landscape. Emerging writers, seeing the commercial success of Instapoetry, might adopt its formulaic style. And publishers motivated by market trends, might champion these works at the expense of poetry. 

Over time, the increasing prominence of Instapoetry might diminish public appreciation for poetry, as it could be perceived by the general public as the sole authentic form of poetic expression.

Connotation, Denotation and the Complexity of Poetry: A Response to George Szirtes

It’s not often I find myself quoted, but when I came across George Szirtes’ 2007 Stanza Lecture, I was flattered and taken aback to find my views on connotation and denotation in poetry cited. At the time, I argued that there isn’t really such a thing as "difficult" poetry, only poetry that either connotes or denotes. In my view, the former tends to be seen as difficult, while the latter is often considered easier to engage with. I used The Waste Land as a prime example of connotative poetry—arguably more complex and harder to penetrate than a Simon Armitage poem, which I suggested is more denotative.

Szirtes, however, took issue with my distinction between connotation and denotation, suggesting that both processes are not mutually exclusive but rather simultaneous in any speech, let alone poetry. Here is my full quote:

'I don’t think there is such a thing as difficult poetry, only poetry that connotes or denotes. The former is always considered difficult by opponents of it. The Waste Land is more connotative than a Simon Armitage poem, for instance, that is why The Waste Land is seen as difficult.'

Here is Szirtes' response to it:

'I am not sure how this writer can draw a sharp distinction between connotation and denotation in any speech, let alone poetry. Connoting and denoting are simultaneous processes.'

While I respect his intellectual rigour, I still maintain that the distinction I drew between connotation and denotation is not only valid but necessary to understanding the nature of poetry. Semantically and cognitively, I agree that both processes can occur at the same time, but in the context of poetry, their creative usage modifies the balance Szirtes mentions. If connotation and denotation were always functioning in the same way, then literary criticism, as we know it, would not be as contentious or layered as it is. The tension between connotation and denotation is precisely what fuels much of the interpretation, discussion and critique of poetry.

This is why The Waste Land is a monumental work. It isn’t just a collection of images or a narrative that can be easily interpreted; it’s a network of connotative meanings, layered and intertwined, inviting the reader to feel as much as understand. 

Poetry that connotes and resonates deeply is not necessarily poetry that is "difficult". It's poetry that engages us in the fullness of our emotional and intellectual lives. It’s poetry that invites us to feel, think and inhabit the spaces between words and meanings. And for that, we need connotation just as much as we need denotation.

Poetry as Mental Experience

Poetry as Mental Experience

(Adapted from an academic article I wrote in the late-2000s)

Louise Rosenblatt, in her book The Reader, the Text, the Poem, describes poetry not as a fixed or static object but as a dynamic event:

‘The poem, then, must be thought of as an event in time. It is not an object or an ideal entity. It happens during a coming-together, a compentration [interdependence], of a reader and a text.’

In this view, poetry creates meaning through the interaction between a reader and the text. Rosenblatt elaborates further:

‘The reading of a text is an event occurring at a particular time in a particular environment at a particular moment in the life history of the reader. The transaction will involve not only the past experience but also the present state and present interests or preoccupations of the reader.’

In other words, the meaning of a poem depends on the unique context of each reader’s life and mindset. Reading poetry is therefore an active process—something experienced in real time.

To experience poetry this way, the reader’s mental engagement or “internalisation”, is important. Internalisation occurs when the reader focuses less on the poem’s surface features—such as its visual layout—and instead focuses on the meaning behind the words. This process can be hindered by poetry that emphasises “artifice” and form, such as intricate visual patterns or the use of non-typical typographical elements, which can distract from a deeper engagement with the poem.

Charles Bernstein echoes this view in ‘The Dollar Value of Poetry’, arguing that the essence of poetry lies in the personal experience it generates during reading. He suggests that poetry is inherently unparaphrasable because its meaning depends entirely on the reader’s specific circumstances:

‘What is untranslatable is the sum of all the specific conditions of the experience (place, time order, light, mood, position, to infinity) made available by reading.’

He also critiques certain experimental approaches that prioritise design over language, arguing that such works risk losing their essence as poetry, becoming more like visual art. In ‘Words and Pictures’, he says:

‘Visual experience is only validated when accompanied by a logico-verbal explanation.’

For Bernstein, meaning is inseparable from language. As he states in ‘Thought’s Measure’, ‘there is meaning only in terms of language.’

Nevertheless, he acknowledges the challenges of balance. In ‘Artifice of Absorption’, he reflects on his use of complex, sometimes jarring techniques:

‘In my poems, I frequently use opaque & nonabsorbable elements, digressions & interruptions, as part of a technological arsenal to create a more powerful (“souped up”) absorption than possible with traditional, & blander, absorptive techniques. This is a precarious road because insofar as the poem seems overtly self-conscious, as opposed to internally incantatory or psychically actual, it may produce self-consciousness in the reader in such a way as to destroy his or her absorption by theatricalizing or conceptualizing the text, removing

it from the realm of an experience engendered to that of a technique exhibited.’

While Bernstein values internalisation, he does, however, view ‘the semantic field as incorporating non-lexical features of a poem’. While I agree with incorporation in principle, in practice it can prove psychologically challenging for many readers, potentially explaining why such poetry is often regarded as “difficult”.

Ultimately, both Rosenblatt and Bernstein agree that poetry derives meaning through mental engagement. Stylistic elements like rhythm and structure, while important, are secondary to the reader’s interaction with the poem’s. What matters most is how the poem resonates in the reader’s mind—how it interfaces with their experiences and emotions.

At its core, a poem is “heard” in the mind, transcending the surface of the text. By prioritising the semantic qualities—the meaning of the words—readers can fully experience poetry as a unique, personal experience in time.

Though the formal qualities of a poem may minimally aid interpretation, they are ultimately subordinate to the mental activity the reader experiences. Poetry, distinct from the visual arts, operates primarily through its semantic dimension. A poem achieves its fullest potential only when it engages the reader’s thoughts, emotions and imagination in real time. All that we are able to glean from a poem is conveyed through the poems semantic operation. To argue that the formal qualities of the text facilitate a semantic response is to rely too heavily on an aesthetic theory that is more appropriate to the visual arts.