on why I do not judge poetry

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Despite all the efforts of my English literature teachers (and a number of friends), I refuse to profess any ability to distinguish good poetry from bad poetry, and indeed good art from bad art. Because those crazy cubists can draw weird stuff and still be called masters, I conclude that it is next to impossible for me to distinguish between an intentionally bad poem (a brilliant satire of the affectations of lesser writers! a shining example of subtle wit and humor!) and a simply horrible piece of junk. I suspect that most art critics make it up, anyway.

You can probably see how this kind of attitude got me two Ds in freshman English. I have neither patience nor desire to sit around in a circle discussing the irony in the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. Give me a program instead.

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