I have a question to all the poetry people out there (there are a lot here it seems).
Why do you like or dislike the confessional poetry subgenre, à la Sylvia Plath?
I’m just idly curious.
And thus you’ve opened one of my cans of worms. I hope you’re prepared.
Confessional poetry catches a lot of flak. This is because, in recent years, really bad poets have taken up the confessional genre to write poems about how horrible their life is, and how they wish they could just die, and oh woe is me, and that’s all. Confessional poetry (real confessional poetry, good confessional poetry) is awesome. You already mentioned Sylvia Plath, but confessionalism goes all the way back to Robert Lowell and Elizabeth Bishop. There’s W. D. Snodgrass, Anne Sexton, Theodore Roethke, John Berryman, hell - Alan Ginsberg; a large portion of the poets we canonize and idol-worship are confessional poets.
I like confessional poetry.
I think Emily Dickinson is kind of confessional too. Not like Sylvia Plath or Elizabeth Bishop, but still kind of. Nobody probably agrees with me.
I think confessional poetry is acceptable only if it can be sung to the tune of “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” ** All other confessional poetry is really nothing more than a different and less satisfying way to masturbate. There is enough real angst in the world without self-absorbed myspacer types making some up to satisfy their need for self-aggrandizement.
Edited to add – ** Except for “The Cremation of Sam McGee,” which can be sung to “The Star of the County Down.”
sigh
I agree that MySpace confessional poetry sucks. Elizabeth Bishop? Not sucking so much.
Oh, and 
.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned:
I’m a dirty swine and my hair has thinned
I care for my flute but neglect my grooming
I can’t act my age, decrepitude looming
I play royal havoc with my credit score
Yet still I spend money like a shop-crazed whore
I take no pride in the acts of my labors
And practice the pipes to spite my neighbors
I take out the garbage only when it gets ripe
And the catbox, the catbox - now there’s another gripe
My diet’s infused with far too much lipid
So, in a word, Father, my life is insipid.
The worst sins of the flesh are those banal
(And let’s pronounce that “anal” as well as “appall”)
For we commit them and whine that our lives are set upon;
Give us a penance and let us be gone.
Congratulations nailed it. It’s hard to do well and there’s a lot of awful stuff out there and then some real gems when it’s done well. In that sense, it’s kind of like science fiction. Lots of crap, hard to do well, but the best of it is great.
Stupid label. 
Who gives a flying pentameter whether someone is a confessional poet. That’s just English Ph.D.s getting their sonnets off. And anyway, every poem written in English in since WWII is confessional in some form or other.
This can’t be.
Oh, yes, of course. How stupid of me. Apologies. Drinks all around. You are right, of course. I’ll shut up now.
How have you read every poem written in English since WWII? 
Some people still write using meter and rhyme and stuff. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.
Confessional is not the same as free form. I’ve seen “confessional” sonnets.
Every Poem
The other day
I wanted to
take sleeping pills,
And jump before the moving train
of her disdain,
My head in a gas oven.
But I picked my nose
instead
And read every poem
Written in English
Since World War II.
I know that and meant that. Not every modern poem is confessional. A great many are, sure. Not all.
Excuse me while I reach for a box of tissue.
Damn. You know–It’s kind of…good. In a a poststructural sort of way.
Once in a Saintly Passion
ONCE in a saintly passion
I cried with desperate grief,
“O Lord, my heart is black with guile,
Of sinners I am chief.”
Then stooped my guardian angel
And whispered from behind,
“Vanity, my little man,
You’re nothing of the kind.”
James Thomson
Jeez that’s beautiful. The imagery, the
honesty, the powerful last three lines.
I was moved too by
Nano’s effort, above.
Will somebody tell me what ‘confessional’ poetry is?
Looks good so far.
If only it had a throbbing tongue, it would be perfect. So many post-structural confessional poets leave out the throbbing tongue.
What makes confessional poetry confessional poetry?
Anybody?
Every Poem - by Bloomfield with a wet noodle
The other day
I wanted to
take sleeping pills,
And jump before the moving train
of her disdain,
My head in a gas oven.
But I picked my nose
instead
And read every poem
Written in English
Since World War II.
Ha! It doesn’t even rhyme! Not only is it missing the throbbing tongue of destiny, but it totally neglects the ashtray of doom. 
djm