About a dozen years ago, I ran into a now-famous poet in the poetry aisle of our local used bookstore. Or rather, he ran into me. I was paging through a copy of James Merrill's The Changing Light at Sandover when the fellow turned to me and began making small talk. After a couple of moments he glanced down at the book in my hand and said, "Huh. James Merrill. I won't read him. He was a millionaire. What does a millionaire know about life?"
Are there any poets you won't read because external details of the poet's life turn you off? Besides Ezra Pound.