...I find myself having written seem to be comprised of two basic elements:
imagination as a form of being and of wonder;
aesthetics as a form of time and of melancholy.
Occasionally, I happen on certain poems by others that seem to incorporate one of both of the above elements. I find myself liking those poems, especially when the poet projects himself out of himself, especially when an obvious attention to craft is manifest.
Like the poem "Baltic" by Wrexie Bardaglio that I posted here yesterday. It was made and made well with being and wonder, time and melancholy.
So my preference appears to be based on a kind of spiritual kinship, as well as an appreciation for those trying to create written art -- the compulsion toward making an aesthetic object.
So my aversion to other kinds of poems appears to be based on those poems' different criteria of inspiration and way of being made.
Others will like poems I don't like. Others will not like the poems I like or the poems I make -- will view them as peculiar, old-fashioned objects, as heresies against the contemporary models of confession, diary, sermon, speech.
I don't know why I'm writing this post. I suppose for two reasons: 1) a half-assed apology for my previous arrogant statements about what is and what is not a real poem; 2) an attempt to assess my own poems as things with a possible consistent aura and meaning.