I wonder

I wonder how the quality
of things I write would be assessed
by writers in the know
(those truly educated in the elements
required for lyrical felicity
like Pound and Eliot, and Pope,
with Yeats and Hardy, too)
if I engaged in messing with,  
ignoring so,  
the places where some articles
were needed by grammatical
and sensical necessity
to go,  
and then, as well,  with regularity,
inverted words to get a rhyme,  
or wrenched the syntax of my lines
quite out of joint to score some points
(in my own mind, at least)
regarding how adept I am
at showing off my vaunted talent for
composing in an agile metric measurement,
 
and all the while appealing to
the way (supposedly, but hardly true)
the classic poets worded, shaped,
and formed their verse
to justify my odd, and thoroughly
mistaken sense
of what a writing should look like
and how its wording is to read,
in order to be seen, applauded, too,
as Muse filled poetry.
 
They’d judge me quite
the dilettante whose self-evaluation of
his writing skills as things
that verge on being unsurpassed
and glorious,  
deserving of the A plus type of grade
is nonsense, laughable, delusion bred,
and of the phantom kind.
 
My sense of grand ability to pen things
other writers will be jealous of,
my proclamations of
my compositions' sterling worth
they’d, with amusement, rightly say
does not reside objectively  
in any other writer’s consciousness,
but only here within my mind.