This past semester, my English teacher announced that today, we were going to read a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins.
The girl next to me groaned. “Ugh,” she said. “Not Hopkins.”
Now, this girl happens to be a lovely person and a good friend of mine, but in that moment, it was as if the devil himself sat in that chair. I spun around. “Hopkins is the best poet in the English language.”
“That’s subjective,” she said. “He’s boring.”
Um, hell no. The quality of poetry is not, and can never be, subjective. It is not dependent on one’s personal enjoyment of the poem.