A Faustian Bargain? Poetry and Self-Marketing—Heather Cadenhead

"...Meanwhile, like Dorian Gray’s decaying portrait in the attic, my soul died a little with every Instagram Reel I posted."

Recently, there was an article in The Economist titled, somewhat ominously: “Britain has seen an alarming rise in poetry sales.” Its author lamented the cause of this unexpected uptick: “Instagram poets” or, for short, “Instapoets.” A best-selling book by British poet Donna Ashworth was identified as particularly reprehensible – Ashworth’s poem, “Youier” was offered up as proof: “...If snow didn’t dare to fall / because rain was fallier / if planets did not glow / because stars were glowier…” (Ashworth, the author reports, has a nasty habit of “putting meaningful things in italics.”) While mostly steering clear of outright insults, the author of said article (in print, titled “Britain gets verse”) certainly got her point across: that is, Ashworth’s poetry may resonate with the John and Jane Does of the world, but it is “of variable quality.”

All publicity is good publicity, they say – and, sure enough, this passive-aggressive Economist piece drove me straight to Ashworth’s Instagram account. I asked my husband to brew a small pot of espresso and got down to the very important business of scrolling photos and reading captions. Immediately, I spied Ashworth – clad in a straw hat and button-down plaid shirt – mid-laugh, petting a Goldendoodle. A few rows down, a poem: "joy sneaks in / as you pour a cup of coffee / watching the sun / hit your favourite tree / just right." I sipped my espresso and stared at the row of evergreens behind my house. Ashworth isn’t wrong, I thought.

That said, I was familiar with this particular brand of “gatekeeper-ism”: I spent my mid-twenties working in the marketing and publicity department for a leading trade publisher. Pervasive on staff was a general distaste for the books we invariably published. In one meeting, a staffer balked at an extra task associated with the spring list; after all, she wrinkled her nose, our primary readers were “just stay-at-home moms.” I remember pursing my lips, thinking of my own mother – home at that very moment, helping my thirteen-year-old brother with pre-algebra problems while bolognese sauce simmered nearby. I was part of the literary ruling class, serving up Marie Antoinette’s cake to those pitiable stay-at-home mothers – available in the distinct flavors of ebook or paperback.