by Jonathan Swift
One of the things that sucks about the poetry (or any other) establishment is that it's automatically assumed to be a member you not only must respect and appreciate the poetry canon, but you must have revered and absorbed it, not based on any merits you yourself may have come to admire, but because it's there, and it's assumed that you must. I read a fair bit of poetry in college, and found that the University of Maine was a pretty good place to find acceptance into the poetry scene, but as a whole, like I've said, the greater poetry scene is good for snobbery, exclusivity (to the point where almost nobody actually cares about poetry, even though it used to be a bona fide cultural institution). Long story short, Jonathan Swift is one of the old poets I would champion without hesitation, not just because I also admire his prose works, but because he can also turn a wicked verse.
Bookshelf status: this particular volume, unread. Because the air of poetry in the modern age is prohibitive.