The new and emerging genre of poetry, Milk and Honey, is the repackaged poetry of teenage love affairs, where “forever” means “never” and “we’re over” means “I’ll see you next week.” It is short and informal, using food and the sharing of meals as a metaphor for sex; pouring viscous liquids acting as a visual. It sets a warm scene of tea-drinking with a lover by the roaring fireplace. Milk and Honey poetry can be bitter or sweet.
This subgenre of modern poetry receives its name from Rupi Kaur’s “Milk and Honey.” Pieces are short, often accompanied by fine-line art that wouldn’t be out of place on a tattoo flash sheet. The writing lacks depth, and the letters are all lowercase. It’s published in books made to decorate coffee tables, not meant for reading or deep interpretation. Kaur’s work has inspired several other poetry collections, and many-an aspiring TikTok poet.
I find Milk and Honey poetry boring. I don’t view the sole use of lowercase letters or recycled clichés as charming. Though some people may find inspiration in this style, I cringe at the future poets Rupi Kaur has persuaded to join her in the fight against capitalization. Words and punctuation have meaning. In a more casual setting, for example in a text message, it’s fine to ignore the formal rules of grammar. It’s modern; it’s chic. But proper nouns deserve respect, emphasis or even deemphasis sometimes. Writing becomes monotonous without a variation in case. I recently asked some of my fellow students why they don’t capitalize their text messages. An overwhelming majority responded with some variation of “it’s less aggressive.”
When I read poetry, I want to be inspired. I want to relive my own, or someone else’s experiences. I want to be excited by something I haven’t seen before. I want aggression, sadness, bliss or some amalgamation of all three; just something new. A Milk and Honey “poem” reads like a text message, something casual enough to wipe your hands clean of, even before you’re done reading it. I struggle to find meaning beyond frank allusions to sex for shock value or eating someone as a metaphor for love. Both have been overdone to death, pun intended. It’s boring.
Another branch of verse that Rupi Kaur has left her Milk and Honey-stained fingerprints on is Pomegranate poetry. Pomegranate poetry typically uses cannibalism as a metaphor for love. The sweet juice of the fruit is contrasted with the bitter taste of the white pith getting stuck between teeth. The give and take power dynamics of (typically heterosexual) relationships are compared to how by cannibalizing someone, or their love, a part of them lives forever in you. Pomegranates are the darker, younger sister of Milk and Honey. Like the latter, it plays upon the idea that large ideas can be simplified into bite-sized slices of life. However, it falls flat on its face when put into practice.
On the other hand, I can admit that Milk and Honey poetry may have done some good. It proves to aspiring writers that even the most two-dimensional, bottom-of-the-barrel poetry can be published. It shows that just about anyone can be a writer; with no barriers to entry, anything can be said. But there is a reason we study Shakespeare and pour over Edgar Allen Poe. They had something to say, and they said it well.
These classic examples of good poetry are typically more longform. Still, I have nothing against shorter, punchy poetry. I love a good haiku, meant to push the boundaries of how much can be said in a few syllables. The largest difference between haikus and Milk and Honey poetry is that the former takes a small idea and keeps it small. It suits its length, unlike Milk and Honey poetry, trying to cram big ideas into skin-tight pants ten sizes too small. I invite you to try your hand at writing a haiku. In the attached image, I have written a haiku and added my attempt at the fine line accompaniment.
To break it down, Phoebus means radiant, an epithet for Apollo, the Greco-Roman god of the sun, light and prophecy (among other domains). Both the light of the Sun and potential prophecies are “blinding.” The capitalization of the word “Him” denotes respect and distinction, something you will not find in most Milk and Honey poetry. I also used the rhetorical device of anaphora, the repetition of the same sounds to further differentiate the word “Him.” All other words carry the “F”, “S”, and/or “B” sounds. The word sticks out, and for good reason. In Milk and Honey poetry, you’d struggle to find a rhetorical device beyond italics or quotations. This is not to say that these can’t hold their own, but the compression of grand concepts leaves something missing. It lacks room for anything to stick out. It’s limiting. I would be delighted if Milk and Honey poetry writers gave themselves the freedom to write any length of poetry or started with smaller ideas.
Circling back to my poem, my “moment of realization” is that if you’re too focused on what could possibly happen, you forget to live in the moment. Don’t put too much stock into the future. Frankly, I need to find some joy in the present moment of modern poetry after so much negativity.
In that same vein, not all modern poets are irredeemable. I find inspiration in even my fellow students’ writing. However, I can never get behind the watering down of poetry for the sake of simplicity. I hate what Rupi Kaur has moulded modern poetry into. But I have faith that the good poets of tomorrow will learn from the greats, along with Kaur’s mistakes, and write something inspiring.
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