Irksome Passion Poem by Michael Pruchnicki

Does it irk one that poets
who think real poetry
consists almost solely
of exclamation points
and impassioned rhetoric?

Is there no room in prosody
for the quiet meditative poem
or the modern ironic comment?

Not according to some
on this board who imply
that overheated verbiage
and a certain sympathy
one feels for the downtrodden
are prerequisites for poetry
with a capital P.

Does Keats or Shakespeare
foam at the mouth and spill
their guts in every line
they cast? Shelley does,
you say, but is hysteria
really that necessary?