Entering a new territory, called as we always are by the poetry whose veritable sirens sing from the rocks of french or german or spanish or italian, as they sing from our own, we are met by the anti-poets who guard the substance of poetry. These that know nothing of song or rocks, nor of the soul's voyage. These that scorn the effluvia of mistake, misuse, misunderstanding- the whole spiritualized universe. These anti-poets withhold from us all that is common, most needed, dreaded, desired. Lest we misuse. Their insensitive right words. Deprived rightly of meaning, by a cheat I speak in spite of my deprivation. 

-- Robert Duncan; from 'Letters, Poems 1953 - 1956'