Back in the 70s, KOFF, which I co-edited, included centerfolds of naked male poets in part because poetry magazines were boring, we proclaimed, & a naked man might enliven ours. Not much has changed except no naked poets. I've read all too many dull reviews & pointless, self-serving anecdotes, presented with line breaks. Occasionally there'll be a last line with a timid kick as if to prove that what they wrote is indeed a poem. Why? Their opinions are banal &/or inoffensive, their language has no life or magic, they seem not to have learned a single technique beyond enjambment.
It will cease to exist without me, so I need not exercise myself over it, except to worry that this drivel will prove what non-poets already believe, that there's nothing in it.
Ah, this is such an old rant.
Off to read this week's offering in Terence Winch's well-chosen Best American Poetry blog. And then a little Hesiod & a reading later this afternoon. Ever hopeful am I.