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On the blurb on the back of this book it states, "Before Rupi Kaur and Amanda Lovelace, there was Machi Tawara", which would have put me off entirely if I had come into this book completely blind, given that both Kaur and Lovelace are, imho, sub-par enter-hitting Instapoets. (YMMV, natch.)

Tawara-sensei is an actual POET, who deals in strict metre, an ancient form, and the weaving of beautiful phrases, and her work oftentimes, for me, reflects yuugen -- a "profound, mysterious sense of the beauty of the universe… and the sad beauty of human suffering." How she does this by telling sweet, simple tales of modern life and personal emotions, I don't know, but I'll consider myself a good poet if I ever manage to capture even one ounce of that magic.

I just. I just. I mean. Insert frustrated flailing right here.

I remember reading "The Princess Saves Herself in This One" and thinking "oh god, that was really awful. But I'm sure she'll grow as a poet, right?" And then I read "The Witch Doesn't Burn in This One" and was pleasantly surprised -- there were signs that Lovelace had honed her craft and I found it reasonably enjoyable. There was still plenty of room for her to improve, but in a way, I found that sort of appealing; what's more fun than watching a poet grow from mediocre to awesome? I don't know if that's naive or simply foolish, but, y'know. I hoped.

Then I read "The Mermaid..." and each of the releases that followed, and here I am. This is the last Amanda Lovelace book I'm going to read.

Bluntly? Her schtick is old and tired and cringey. She's technically released the same book over and over and over again, and stagnated. She hasn't improved her form, her rhythm, her imagery -- nothing has changed. It's another book of Tumblr posts of flowery white feminism and I'm sorry, it's gotten incredibly bloody boring now. And she still
suffers
from
pressing 'enter'
way
too
much in
random
places for
no
reason syndrome, which makes for a really physically uncomfortable read. (And also adds credence to the "anything is a poem if you break it up" school of thought, which helps steel those with the opinion that poetry is just lazy. Thanks.)

Let's end a review of cliches with another one: I'm not mad, I'm just really disappointed.

I'll be honest: I don't like Halsey as a person (or, well, I don't like the Halsey I perceive as a public figure, more accurately, since I don't know what she's like as a person, not really). I like the majority of her music, though. I put off reading this for quite a while because I didn't really want to read another half-assed book of Instapoetry by a famous person.

In retrospect, I should have remembered that Halsey is an excellent songwriter, and not worried so much. This collection is pretty damn good! And pointedly not Instapoetry -- Halsey displays both effort and care in her poems, which...I just...why are we living in a world where that's a rare thing?!

So. I might have a secret soft spot for her, now. Damn it, good poets are my one weakness. :P

The good: Halsey's writing strength is definitely in her imagery. She doesn't apply it as often as I think she could, but when she does, it's brutally satisfying. She takes what is rough and simple and makes it very engaging, creating a definite picture in your mind -- it honestly put me in the mind of bright, sharp-edged street art. Her rhythm is also quite good, if a little irregular (there are some weird line break positions in a few of these which interrupt the flow of the reader), and a lot of these poems, I suspect, may have been song possibilities at some point.

The bad: Some of the rhyme structures in a few of these don't quite fit the themes she's writing about. In my opinion, a very tough-to-chew piece like "A Story Like Mine" needs a little more gravity, and the quick half-rhymes of some lines just feel...off? A little distracting?

But overall? This is some good stuff. Really good stuff, in fact. I'd love to read further poetry from Halsey, and am really looking forward to how she grows poetically.