A Critical Appraisal of Andrew Tate’s Poetry

The attribute that is most typically used when talking about the likes of Andrew Tate and their sudden, temporary prominence is “meteoric”. The definition according Merriam Webster: Resembling a meteor in speed or in sudden and temporary brilliance. While this certainly is a fitting (and clichéd) way of talking about it, I would prefer using the adjective “icarian” since it adds a moral and for that matter, more poetic dimension to the tale of Tate–the tale of one man’s limitless ambition thwarted by the limits of ignorance. In this case, it is at the hands of the internet powers-that-be which have sent him sprawling from the heights of social media glory to the dark and churning depths of cancellation below.

If you do not know who Andrew Tate is, the only information necessary for this post’s purpose is to know that he is/was a prominent influencer of the “manosphere” who for a short period of time this year reportedly became the most Googled man on the planet before being promptly deplatformed from the social media networks where he built his following. This would normally not be of any interest to this website–I have no intention of writing about Meghan Markle or Kim Kardashian here–were it not for the fact that the man writes poetry too, and not just any kind of poetry, but from the horse’s mouth:

My instagram poems are probably the finest literary works in the history of the English language.

Perhaps he was joking when he said that but in my candidness I believe his self-indulgence is real and that he attaches supreme value to everything he creates. For that reason am I putting it under the critical lens, no other. I believe anybody should be able to delve into the craft of verse without being critically excoriated but if you then become publicly known and, not least, state to hundreds of millions of people that your work is the greatest in the history of the language, well then you better live up to your word, mate, or else.

While Tate’s narcissism is certainly off-putting, particularly considering that he calls himself a Christian, it is certainly nothing that makes his poetry bad per se. I can think of good poets throughout history who were probably just as vainglorious as Andrew Tate and who wrote many fine poems for no other reason than for the publicity.

With all that said, let’s get underway. I will be looking at three poems that are in fairly wide circulation. I am assuming that they are representative and of high quality since Tate has discussed these himself. I am further keeping them with their punctuation, spelling and grammar mistakes since for the benefit of the doubt they might actually be intentional. Each of them are written in loosely rhymed quatrains. This first one is untitled.

I show less than I have to stay tasteful
Still catching hate cause they’re hateful
Too much food out the gate it’s a plateful
Now your girls full of tate and she’s grateful

I show less than I earn cause I’m humble
Your bitch in my ride coz you fumbled
Yes I hear couple pussydem grumble
But they don’t try n step I don’t stumble

I show less than I know I’ve stopped talking
Split the bullshit from truth I’ve been clocking
See me sit n don’t speak like im hawking
But there’s feet behind talk bitch i’m walking

I show less than I love but I miss her
Thinking back to the day that I kissed her
She left a sore on my heart there’s a blister
Fuck the next best thing that’s her sister

This is somewhat surprisingly technically grounded. The dominant metrical foot is the anapest with exclusively feminine end-rhymes being used. There are also some examples of internal rhyming (Now your girls full of tate and she’s grateful) and an anaphoric anchor in each of the stanzas starting with the phrase “I show less than…”

The poem is, of course, about Andrew Tate, and about how he is far more profound than what his exterior puts on. The first three stanzas are in praise of his modesty (yes), not only regarding his material possessions but also his intellect. The last, and the most interesting, since it suggests a softer side, is about lost love and how Tate gets revenge on his former lover by copulating with one of her near relations.

The next one has a title. it’s called Battle scars:

We had it all to lose, we had it all to gain
I know it hurts you when you hear my name
There’s no sun without rain. No joy without pain
Who ever makes souls made ours the same

Distance kills fake love and shows you what’s real
I know the deal, I can play heart of steel.
The distance seems to make it much harder to heal
Give me one night of your touch, just one more feel.

I’m fuckin some bitch and pretending it’s you
I fuck a new one each day since we said we were through.
I check my inbox and just tear through the queue
I can’t sleep at night what else should I do

I’m kissing this bitch and remember your lips
I’m missing your touch while she’s suckin the dick
Got battle scars girl guess I finally got hit
But I’m a champion and I was made for this shit.

Metrically this tends towards the iamb in the first two stanzas and towards the anapest in the last two. Once again, this is a lament for absent love (is it the same love interest from the first poem?). There is a suggestion that a physical distance has made their relationship impossible (stanza two) and he is filling the absence this has created through coition with other partners on a daily basis. There is no feeling of resentment towards his former lover here–he mentions that he has been hurt through her loss, but since he is the highly qualified individual that he is he just moves on in life.

The final one is once again without a title. It goes like this:

Every time I leave there’s tears in her eyes
She knows how I’m earning and wants me alive
The struggle is finished but I still only strive
Understand it’s how life taught me to survive

Every time Im moving there’s a strap no doubt
I don’t respect the law so why travel without
It’s rained and it’s poured I even built up a spout
The withouts want my buckets when living in drought

Every time we fuck I crush my soul into yours
We mix pain and insane with Eiffel Tower tours
I collect cash quiet behind double locked doors
Without profit to make there wouldn’t be wars

Money has no value so I give time with the don
You’re in love with my brains obsessed with my brawn
Enemies won’t stop now the guns have been drawn
I just hope you still love me after I’m gone

Top G.

Yet another love poem (what a sweetheart he is!). This is vaguely iambic. He uses anaphora in the first three stanzas with the adverbial “Every time…”.

This poem centres less on Tate’s sentiments than it does that of his beloved. It is about how sad she is when he is not present. Why should she be sad? Well, because he lives a dangerous life (he doesn’t respect laws, he has dealings with organised crime syndicates, his enemies are armed, etc.) and she knows that he might not come back alive (–“after I’m gone”).


Summary

This is not, by any accounts, good poetry. The simplistic vulgarity speaks for itself so I will not write more on that, but on a more basic level the poems need far more elaboration, not only to make the content more profound but just to tidy up a lot of the clumsier details. Once again, leaving the orthographical and grammatical mistakes aside, this poetry rife with clichés (i.e. “There’s no sun without rain. No joy without pain”; “It’s rained and it’s poured”, etc.), and just incongruences. For example, why is the third poem, which is about Tate being absent from his lover because of his dangerous lifestyle, suddenly interjected with this silly detail about them going on guided tours of the Eiffel tower?.

I have not read any other poems by Tate but I would imagine that they all read more or less the same. I am not encouraging Tate to stop writing poetry, but if he wishes to write better verse then he must also understand the limits of his skill. He claims he is a believer and therefore he ought to understand better than the atheist that one is only exalted in humbling oneself. In the meantime the main piece of advice that I would give Tate is to read more. There is a painfully conspicuous absence of poetic vision here and this stems principally from a detachment to a poetic tradition. His verse is one that simply has one point of reference: rap lyrics, and like most rap lyrics the universe of Andrew Tate’s poetry concerns three things: his riches, his “bitches”, and his ego. If that is all your art has to go off, your poetry will forever be confined to the dust heap.

Andrew Tate: go to a library and borrow a good anthology of English language verse, or more simply why not just peruse the anthology I have created myself?