Recently I spent three days at a private high school in New England, doing something that, given my considerable unease over the rise of the creative-writing establishment, I had thought I would never do: I taught a poetry workshop.

Not, mind you, that a poetry workshop is necessarily a terrible thing. Some of my best friends teach poetry workshops. And I would never contest the proposition that the guidance of a certain type of poet can be of real value to a certain type of student. Surely one can imagine a gifted, intelligent fledgling poet profiting from the experience of working closely with a more mature poet who loves his art, has a technical mastery of it, knows its history, and, while maintaining high standards of discipline, discrimination, and technique, is open-minded enough to allow the student to develop in his own direction—and who, moreover, has the time, energy, sensitivity, and...

 

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