It’s 2016, and you’re on the wean off Tumblr. That’s OK; Instagram’s made some algorithmic changes to your explore page and now exercise videos are sandwiched between Kermit the Frog memes and RIP Harambe tribute posts. You continue to scroll through Vampire Diaries gifs and share the Harambe in Heaven pic because you care about animal rights. You scoff to yourself.

Wait. You can’t just be a meme girl, so you keep scrolling. Till you find it. The one thing that will make you a bit more cultured. Poetry. A snippet from Rupi Kaur’s book Milk and Honey arises from the digital ashes. You share it on your story and, just like milk, the DMs come pouring in. A gaggle of “My queen”, “Poet of our generation” and, “omg she speaks to my soul”, materialise on your screen.

At the time, as a recovering slam poet, I saw Rupi Kaur as the blueprint for poetry. Kaur garnered widespread attention for her bite-size poems and scrawlings on Instagram. I was such a fan that my sister even surprised me with tickets to her talk at the 2017 Sydney writers’ festival. Suited for the medium; her poems were in lower case, averaging about 15 words, with so many line breaks you’d think she was at war with the Enter key.

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My friends and I formed a sort of sisterhood of the travelling Milk and Honey, passing it along for a maximum possession period of one day – that’s how long it took to read it. We would reconvene and discuss it at length. Exploring themes like love, femininity, abuse, identity and migration, the poems were like the Spice Girls of trauma, offering something for each of us. We would read our selected poem, knowingly nodding at the choirs of “babe, so you”, or the occasional aspirated “whoa”. There was no doubt Rupi Kaur touched a generation of young readers, as she addressed the uncomfortable experiences of womanhood that many yearned to finally have acknowledged.

Instagram embraced this form due to its brevity, enabling a sense of community to thrive as individuals could engage with poems through comments and shares. This exposure contributed to the democratisation of publishing, breaking away from the traditional gatekeepers. A new generation of writers could now connect directly with their readers. Consequently, Kaur went on to self-publish her first book of poetry.

Milk and Honey sold 11 million copies worldwide and was translated into 43 languages – 42 more than the average Australian politician can name. Kaur became a household name, earning more accolades than most writers who had toiled through traditional scholarly routes and industries. Sorry, Prince Harry. This sparked heated online discourse, with many discrediting her work and labelling her poems as devoid of literary merit – likening them to a glorified grocery list. A friend even dubbed her the “Taylor Swift of poetry”.

An entire genre of memes was born from these polemics. Slapping “– Rupi Kaur” at the end of any vapid statement practically guaranteed you hundreds of retweets, with many quoting existing icons only to misquote it as Rupi Kaur.

By 2019 I was in recovery again, this time from being a Rupi Kaur fan. I made my sobriety known by using “Rupi” as an adjective to describe whatever I found to be corny. Anything in its likeness was “cringe”, while I, as far as I was concerned, was “based”. I officially grew up, only to become a hater. Swapping poetry for the pouring of the tea (Pour-a-tea).

Today, however, I find myself embracing opposing perspectives, less swayed by my interests being markers of my identity. I’ve finally struck a balance between the poles of “cringe” and “based”. A few weeks ago, I revisited Audre Lorde’s essay, Poetry Is Not a Luxury (based), where she states, “Poetry is not a luxury, it is a vital necessity of existence”. In past readings, I grasped the importance of poetry in breathing life into women’s experiences – its role in our expression and empowerment. However, during this reading, I lingered on the line “Necessity for existence,” considering its literal meaning. What truly constitutes a necessity for life? Essentially, they are the fundamental requirements for survival – like food, shelter, water (cringe) – which should be accessible to all people. So, if poetry were to be a necessity for life rather than a luxury, then it too should be accessible.

Rupi Kaur’s poetry accomplishes just that. The 11 million owners of her musings symbolise those who have gained access – individuals for whom Milk and Honey served as their introduction into the world of poetry. For many, it was the first time they saw their feelings reflected in textual form. Kaur distilled universal concepts into comprehensible shapes. Not everyone is tertiary-educated or familiar with “the greats”: if I were to ask my mum about a meter, she’d point me to Bunnings; my cousin might mistake a synecdoche for a frozen yoghurt topping; and my co-workers would wager that iambic pentameter was “that viral a cappella group from 2012”.

Reflecting on Kaur’s artist talk from 2017, I recall meeting a single, stay-at-home mother who claimed Rupi Kaur’s Fall in Love with Your Solitude was the mantra that sustained her through her divorce. Who am I to dismiss its meaningful impact? Opting for elitist obscurity over resonance seems counterintuitive. Art should be accessible to all. To those who call for its removal – what harm did it do to you, bro? If you dislike it so much, pick up another poet or make your own. So yeah, go off Rupi, you are so important in many ways – and I am once again a fan.