Alleged poet Rupi Kaur (@rupikaur_)
Just when you think feminism cannot possibly become more absurd, they always manage to push beyond the limits of imagination.
sex takes the consent of two
if one person is lying there not doing anything
cause they are not ready
or not in the mood
or simply don’t want to
yet the other is having sex
with their body it’s not love
is is rape
That is a “poem” by Rupi Kaur, a young Toronto-based feminist whose work has been celebrated by the Huffington Post:
Rupi Kaur’s first book, Milk and Honey is the poetry collection every woman needs on her nightstand or coffee table. Accompanied by her own sketches, the beautifully honest poems read like the everyday, collective experiences of today’s modern woman. She experiences love, loss, pain and healing in different chapters of her life. Sometimes she feels as though she has shattered in a million pieces but eventually, she finds strength after picking up the pieces and ultimately survives. Reading the book, is like getting the hug you need on a rainy day, the catharsis you crave after a tragedy.
Just kill me now, please. I’ve seen too much.
If you were to subject this to the kind of mockery it deserves, you would certainly be denounced as a misogynist. But why must such insipid expressions of mundane emotion be treated as if Rupi Kaur has said something profound? What is it about feminism that makes it function as a force-field protecting this kind of mediocre dreck from criticism and ridicule? Surely, there have been excellent women poets in history, and there must be genuinely talented women poets alive in the world today. Rupi Kaur is not one of them, however, and it is an insult to women to expect them to pretend that Rupi Kaur has real talent.
Permit me to observe that Rupi Kaur is saying less, and saying it much less persuasively, than any good pop song would say. Back when I was a kid, we didn’t need feminism — or any kind of campus orientation lecture about “affirmative consent” — to make sense of our feelings about love and sex. We had rock-and-roll and soul music written and sung by some of the greatest lyric poets in the history of the English language.
There’s a rose in the fisted glove
And the eagle flies with the dove,
And if you can’t be with the one you love,
Honey, love the one you’re with.
OK, so it’s not Shakespeare or Longfellow, but neither of those guys ever had a Top 40 hit. Here’s another classic:
Well, I’m running down the road,
Trying to loosen my load.
Got seven women on my mind:
Four that want to own me,
Two that want to stone me,
One says she’s a friend of mine.
Take it easy.
Hey, you may not think that’s profound, but when I was 17 years old, I could totally relate to that. Here’s another one:
Always and forever,
Each moment with you
Is just like a dream for me
That somehow came true.
And I know tomorrow
Will still be the same,
‘Cause we’ve got a life of love
That won’t ever change.
You’re never gonna get something like that from Rupi Kaur. No feminist is ever going to write the kind of poetry that you want to put to a slow jazzy six-eight beat, so couples can hold each other close and sway together under the magic sparkling light of a rotating mirror ball.
Back in the day, our romantic expectations were expressed through a shared musical vocabulary. You could ask a girl, “What kind of music do you like?” And her answers would tell you a lot about her. When I was a teenage boy learning to play guitar, I sang a lot of Beatles songs — “In My Life” was one — and eventually figured out that old Sam Cooke tunes had a special magic. Elvis, Buddy Holly, the Everly Brothers, the Beach Boys — you could learn a lot about love from the classics of rock-and-roll, lessons you’ll never get from the grim ideologues of feminism, who expect us to believe Rupi Kaur is a poetic genius.
Nah, sweetheart. You don’t know nothing about poetry.
Tonight you’re mine completely.
You give your love so sweetly.
Tonight the light of love is in your eyes.
Will you still love me tomorrow? . . .
Tonight with words unspoken.
You tell me I’m the only one.
But will my heart be broken
When the night meets the morning sun?
That, my friends, is poetry. Rupi Kaur has never written anything nearly as true or beautiful as that, and I doubt she ever will.
(Hat-tip: @DateOffCampus on Twitter.)
UPDATE: Charles Hill wrote about the moral aspects of that 1961 Shirelles classic — co-written by the immortal Carole King — more than a decade ago. Time flies in the blogosphere!
So…a participation trophy babble factory tossed a participation trophy to another loser… The cult of mediocrity continues to revel in mediocrity. I, for one, find some reassurance in that. The more the left reduces itself to monkeys flinging poo at onlookers, the more opportunity for the rubes to realize that they’ve been had. Some of the best conservatives were once young, gauzey-eyed leftists who came to their senses after years of confronting this same sort of dreck.
“To My Coy Mistress”
Old school.
Every young man NEEDS to at least read “The Taming of the Shrew”
They still teach Shakespeare to teenagers, that self- identify as heterosexual, in public high school….RIGHT?
Emotional “Safe Zone”-free Private prep school is the domain for Chaucer, when is it deemed “suitable” for college um….adults?
But hey, let’s all give the girl a hearty round of Jazz Hands applause.
Burma Shave would like to have a brief talk with you. Very brief.
That abortion of the mind of Ariganta Puffington is a cancer.
Shameless self-promotion is my raison d’etre, and I encourage everyone to emulate my bad example!
There was an old lady from Nantucket,
Who like to ….
Fêted Vivian,
Fated to stay a virgin.
(Fetid vagina.)
There once was a girl from Nantucket
Whose “poetry” was naught but an op-ed;
Libs laid it on thick
For her crap on a stick
But the interwebz told her to suck it.
Privileged cis scum
Oh, Feminism!
I sat on a big pickle.
Fetid vagina.
“That cisheteronormative Christofascist pig? Why, we’ve excluded him from TEH KANON!”
“That said, women have been even tougher on Updike than the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. “Updike provides no blameless way of being female,” Margaret Atwood has complained.
Wendy Lesser has labeled Updike as a “thorough misogynist.” “It was the way he depicted women,” Anna Shapiro has explained. “It was the way he described them – us. You felt yourself squirming, wanting to pull a blanket over you, preferably lead-lined, to shield yourself from the merest stray phrase or casual observation.”
Did Updike care? Around the time he published The Witches of Eastwick, the author noted “I’ve been criticized for making the women in my books subsidiary to the men.” So what better way to address these concerns than by putting three women at the forefront of his latest novel?
Ah, the esteemed Mr. Updike, now softened by his entry into late middle age, was turning a new leaf.
Hardly! The three women in question—Alexandra Spofford, Jane Smart, and Sukie Rougemont—are smarmy, manipulative, caustic and catty. And did I mention that they are witches? Something about the fictional Rhode Island town of Eastwick is apparently conducive to channeling and fortifying women’s supernatural powers. As a result, these three amigas terrorize the local community, and it’s hard to tell who fares worse, their friends or their
enemies.”
http://conceptualfiction.com/witches_of_eastwick.html
Ironically, HE’S the one most in need of a “Holiday in Cambodia.”
slight failure with the second rhyme, but pretty good otherwise,
Meanwhile, over at AOS:
http://acecomments.mu.nu/?blog=86&post=359833#c24362483
Feminists always call each other’s work brilliant. It is as convincing as “comrade” and “brother.” The woman doth protest too much comes to mind. In other words they know it’s shit. When commies racists and man-haters have to play mind games to prepare them for the game, they’ve already acknowledged defeat. That doesn’t mean a lot of civilization can’t be destroyed before that happens. Why do such people argue what they instinctively know is false? I confess I don’t know.
Burma Shave.
“participation trophy babble factory” — I am *so* stealing that.
“Some of the best conservatives were once young, gauzey-eyed leftists who came to their senses after years of confronting this same sort of dreck.” — Hey — I *resemble* that remark!
How ’bout “De Camptown Ladies?”
Wow that sucks
‘Cuz she’s dumber than dirt
So fukkit
I’m gonna walk my dog
And then there will be beer.
Yeah, that’s it. Great. How many more of these do I have to do to fill a book?
Damn it, now I really really regret not having a DVD of Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Because I have a burning need to watch it now.
Buddenbrooks? Man, first time I read it, in college, I so wanted to smack that Toni right upside the head.
Second time, I wanted to grab a pistol and shovel and locate a quiet spot in the woods for her.
I saw Fetid Vagina open for REM back in ’97.
Back in high school, when we had to write poetry, I set my mind to writing the worst I could manage. I even came up with an alter ego, Ogden Gnash.
And Gnash became the most popular “poet” of my entire graduating class, bar none. I either did something right, or something terribly terribly wrong.
Right, right, you’re bloody well right!
Many years back I screwed up, left the sea, and worked as an IT tech. Three years at the US District Court in Seattle convinced me that working, eating and sleeping on top of five thousand tons of ordnance in the Persian Gulf really was my one true calling.
Anyway we had these interminable meetings because hardly anyone but myself knew to make an agenda, stick to it, and not permit extraneous diversions. So at one extra long and painful one I was struck by the muse and started writing haiku. As soon as I finished this one and handed it around the table we broke up:
Meetings without end
How long can this continue?
I will kill myself.
Not only one of my better efforts, but it had an immediate beneficial effect.
And, ummm… Burma Shave.
Doesn’t really scan, but tell you what – wear a black turtleneck and some Wayfarers, and have some guy on bongos behind you as you recite it, and I think you’ve got a hit, man.
I met a traveler from an antique land
Get lost privileged cis scum I said
My name is O. Z. Mantears
Queen of Queens
Go rape a cow
Burma Shave
???
???
Excellent take on the state of humanities education here. English majors are no longer required to study Shakespeare at UCLA.
http://collegeinsurrection.com/2015/10/prager-university-who-killed-the-liberal-arts/
… of course, Fetid Vagina would open for anybody.
Ba-dum-TISH!
[…] [The basic theme is from The Other McCain […]
I think that most of the democRat party could use one. It would do them, and the nation, some good.
And not one of those farcical “fact-finding” trips like the CBC took to Cuba, either.
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[…] “Rape Culture” Rhetoric as Bad Poetry Just when you think feminism cannot possibly become more absurd, they always manage to push beyond the limits of imagination. […]
Will you still love me always reminds me of Bob Seger’s We’ve Got Tonight. It’s a testimony to his talent that a song about a one night stand has become a Wedding standard.