Minimalist poetry is a curious art form. On one hand, its simplicity can be breathtaking, distilling complex emotions into a few perfectly chosen words. On the other, it can sometimes feel like it crosses the line from evocative to, well, lazy. The debate on whether minimalist poetry is inspired or just minimal effort has only grown with the rise of social media.
One of the most famous examples of minimalist storytelling is often attributed to Ernest Hemingway, though its authorship is debated:
“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”
Six words. That’s it. And yet those six words pack an emotional punch that lingers far longer than some novels. The story leaves gaps, but in a deliberate way. We, as readers, fill those gaps, and in doing so, we become co-creators of the story’s meaning. The economy of language isn’t a flaw here; it’s the whole point.
This, in my opinion, is minimalist poetry at its best. It’s clever, intentional, and layered. The writer has done their job by crafting a framework that invites you into its world, offering just enough to ignite your imagination.
But then there’s the other side of minimalist poetry, the kind that’s been popularized by Instagram and TikTok poets. These poems, while often beautifully packaged in neat fonts and pretty backdrops, sometimes feel hollow. They can be so sparse that they rely almost entirely on the reader to find meaning where there may not have been much intention.
I’ll admit, I’ve spent far too long scrolling through Instagram poets’ pages, trying to glean the mass appeal of their work, but more often than not, I just don’t get the hype. Atticus, one of the most well-known Instagram poets, is a prime example. His work is often beautifully presented—each poem feels like it’s been carefully curated for aesthetic appeal. But when I read the actual words, I sometimes find myself wondering: Is this it?
Take this Atticus poem, for instance:
“She conquered her demons
and wore her scars
like wings.”
Now, this isn’t necessarily a bad poem. It’s empowering, and I’m sure it resonates deeply with many people. But does it feel crafted? To me, it’s a nice sentiment wrapped in poetic phrasing, but it lacks the depth and precision that truly memorable poetry offers. It’s easy to read, easy to share, and looks great on a Pinterest board—but does it challenge or linger in the reader’s mind?
Or take a hypothetical minimalist poem like:
“The sky is blue.
I feel, too.”
Is it poetry? Sure. Is it meaningful? It could be, depending on how the reader interprets it. But at some point, I think the burden of creating meaning needs to be shared more evenly between the poet and the reader.
So, is that a problem?
I think it depends on how much work you believe the reader should put into the process of poetry. In some ways, all poetry is a collaboration between the writer and the reader. Even a densely worded, highly descriptive poem leaves room for interpretation—it’s part of what makes poetry so powerful. But minimalist poetry amplifies that collaborative element, sometimes to the point where the writer’s role feels diminished.
At its best, minimalist poetry uses its sparseness to make every word essential. The space between the words isn’t empty; it’s charged with meaning. At its worst, it can feel like the poet handed you a blank page and said, “Figure it out.”
Social media has undoubtedly democratized poetry, which is a beautiful thing. But it has also encouraged a kind of fast-food poetry, where pieces are churned out quickly for likes and shares. Some of these poems are deeply moving, proving that a few well-placed words can touch hearts around the globe. Others feel more like placeholders, banking on the reader’s goodwill to imbue them with meaning.
Ultimately, whether minimalist poetry is lazy or inspired comes down to intention and execution. If the poet has truly worked to make each word count, the results can be stunning. If they’ve used minimalism as a shortcut, it shows.
For readers and writers alike, the challenge is to discern the difference. Everyone’s answers are going to be different of course. That is the fun (and sometimes irritation) when it comes to art.
Welp, I think that’s all my thoughts on the matter. Thanks for listening and feel free to continue the dialogue in the comments. Do you enjoy minimalist poetry? Are you perhaps more brilliant than me and understand the hype? Or do you have similar concerns with lazy, (and often) formulaic art appearing more and more mainstream? Am I actually just a pompous jerk who is overly critical (also perhaps).
By the Brooke 