Any attempt to assess the situation of contemporary poetry immediately encounters the inconvenient absence of an avant-garde. It is not possible simply to check the progress of the dominant movement—or even the two or three most advanced "schools"—in order to find out what of interest is going on. In fact, the current impossibility of an avant-garde is one of the most interesting characteristics of our moment.

In 1912, Ezra Pound's rhetoric was deliberately inflammatory. You could see the glint in his eye as you listened to the snarl in his voice:

Poetry is not a sort of embroidery, cross-stitch, crochet, for pensionnaires, nor yet a post-prandial soporific for the bourgeoisie. We need the old feud between the artist and the smugger portions of the community revived with some virulence for the welfare of things at large.

Extremely conscious of his position at the center of a loosely confederated party of innovation, Pound reveled in the role of provocateur. Like W.B. Yeats, he delighted in "oppositions, " both for the clarifying debate and for the sheer stimulation they produce.