Yup. What I mean by relevance or usefulness to one's own practice. As 
poets we rarely stand above that. So (I try to be aware) no matter 
how forcefully I push an opinion (or prejudice) about a poem or poet 
I'm finally reflecting on my own way of working. I don't think that's 
true about my political opinions or food preferences, say. I would 
suggest that this is the case with most of us. When Frost said 
something to the effect that free verse was no verse at all (he may 
have been quoting someone else, I no longer remember) it was the 
truth for him, but not The Truth--a matter of his practice, what he 
knew how to learn from.

Mark


At 07:23 PM 3/27/2006, you wrote:
>----- Original Message ----- From: "Mark Weiss" <[log in to unmask]>
>To: <[log in to unmask]>
>Sent: Monday, March 27, 2006 7:20 PM
>Subject: Re: Help! The grass is singing
>
>
>>Why?
>I mean I'd be lost without having the form available.
>
>Ellen Avery
>
>
>
>The tourists have gone; I can't say
>
>I'll miss their endless peering when,
>
>bored with crabcakes and toffee
>
>or having somehow lost their parking lot,
>
>they roam briefly inland and pass
>
>the grimy window of my studio.
>
>If I painted the one view of the one beach,
>like so many others, they'd ignore me;
>
>but looking in, they wonder what
>I'm doing ... What am I doing?
>
>( - Remember how angry I was
>
>fifty years ago, when Marya said
>those first Pollocks I saw with her
>
>would make a lovely chintz.
>
>I'd be more tolerant now;
>
>as would she, if she were alive and if
>
>familiarity were tolerance.)
>It's autumn, time to hang another piece
>
>on the wall opposite the screens
>
>on which dear Dr. Gilder hangs my x-rays,
>
>take back last April's offering, dread
>
>a bit more his retirement,
>
>thrill like a girl when he marvels
>
>how well I'm doing actually
>
>(considering), and talk -
>
>as if we were two grownups
>
>mumbling over a child -
>
>about poor Sarah, my survivor friend.
>
>Who "should be in a home -
>
>we really must confront that,"
>
>says Doctor G., quite thoroughly confused
>
>when I agree, sharply: "Yes, she should have a home."
>
>(Instead of a room chez a niece
>
>who is pious and narrow and mean,
>
>herself another piece
>
>of driftwood washed here on a husband's tide
>
>in contrast to my own careful docking.)
>
>"I'll take you in, and we'll go down together,"
>
>is what I say to Sarah when
>
>we hobble among the tourists,
>
>shying from their bellies
>
>and their explosive and unhappy kids,
>
>admiring the nearly naked young,
>
>enjoying the usual view, the noisy gays.
>
>It's hard for her to get lost, I tell the doctor:
>
>the town is small, and anyway
>
>most of her life, she says,
>
>has been a grand though unaccountable
>
>and possibly pointless voyage;
>
>a fading number tells her where she's from.
>
>She'll take up no room -
>
>which is good, for I have none;
>
>especially now it's fall
>
>and my other friends, who have hidden
>
>all summer, come
>at dusk to drink and argue while I cook.
>
>All men, which means their various pains are tragic;
>
>or at least glorious, like
>
>their wealth, such as it is,
>
>their politics or art, such as they were,
>
>their late regretted wives.
>
>I love them most, I think, when they mostly talk
>
>to themselves: Douglas describing
>
>a memorably rude tourist;
>
>Howard a book, a traveler's account
>
>of a strange old settlement
>
>in Paraguay, where someone said
>
>after the War, "At least we have made others suffer."
>
>He wonders at that, ignored, shaking his head.
>
>Of course they can be trying
>
>when they begin to repeat themselves, or trail off.
>
>Or when, despite my orders,
>
>they attempt to help me clean.
>
>These longer, quiet nights are also time
>
>for letters.  (Doug insists
>
>he'll buy me a computer .
>
>I prefer his nagging and his tales
>
>of endless information, fabulous ease.)
>
>There are still surprisingly many
>
>to write, and even some that will be answered;
>
>though when I start without a salutation
>I know that one's to me.