I must say I enjoyed and agreed with nearly all of Brendan's *overheated opinion[s].* I believe I have posted a few of my own during my short time with bananafish. I am not in favor of "sloppy emotions on the page" beyond the age of 25. Brendan might be being a little too harsh with a cutoff of college, which I take to be 22. (Certainly, I am not in favor of sloppy emotions at the age of 48. I hope my Waiting for Issa's Snail wasn't just that; but, yes, I know it wasn't a real haiku or emphatically not a real double-haiku. It was intended as a *return* post after the hiatus of nearly a month. Believe me, I know there are no *real poems* hiding here under my roof.) I am in favor of a 7-year apprenticeship before wanting to see one's name in print. (For the brave, see my January posts [though rants might be more accurate].) Yes, it is not Whitman's, cummings' or any other real poet's fault that an avalance of imitations follows their work. But I think I would pause and ponder awhile with the statement "grow into an aesthetic sense that tells them they aren't any good at it, or perhaps aren't willing to do the God-damn hard work that poetry requires." I fear one young real-poet-to-be might read Brendan's post and give up *too soon*. One might not be any good at it for quite awhile. But, yes, this hypothetical young poet had better be willing to do "the God-damn hard work" for the distance. "There's no way Salinger could pull it off [write poems at a Seymour level] although I'm confident he has tried." I am of two minds re Brendan's statement. First, yes, never really *at the level of the fictional Seymour.* *That* level, as far as I know, has never made it into print. For the fictional Seymour is, oh, forget it. Just reread S:an I, instead. But, given JDS has had 40 years since publishing S:an I, and recalling some of the let's-just-say-incredible passages in especially S:an I (*my* favorite piece of writing by JDS) I think he could, with tenacity, find another Muse of Absolute Joy on his shoulder and record some great stuff. However, I wouldn't be completely truthful in this, if I didn't say that Hapworth does not give me as much hope as I would like to have. And finally, the question of the state of contemporary American poetry. I could go on for pages on this, but will compress it into: Yes, *way too much stuff in print that belongs in the writer's drawer or wastebasket.* Amongst the *living*, I personally like Jack Gilbert, Stan Rice and Galway Kinnell. Of course there are others, but it is hard to find them. Brendan, I will check out Pinsky. Any particular volume?