Gerard Manley Hopkins, Dylan Thomas, Seamus Heaney, Ted Hughes.
Ogden Nash
I may be a Philistine, but I have to admit that most poetry eludes me. I do like a lot of Robert Frost and Walt Whitman though. And Robert Service is fun to read aloud even if it isn’t great poetry.
Shel Silverstein
ahem…
Always sprinkle pepper in your hair,
Always sprinkle pepper in your hair.
‘Cause then if you are kidnapped by a wild barbazoop,
Who sells you to a ragged hag, who wants you for her soup,
She’ll pick you up and sniff you, and then she’ll sneeze “aachoo!”
And say, “My tot, you’re much too hot, I’ll fear you’ll never do!”
And with a shout, she’ll throw you out, and you’ll run away from there,
And soon you will be safe at home, a’sittin’ in your chair.
If you always always always always always always always
Always ALWAYS sprinkle pepper in your hair.
Yes. My grandfather (who died when I was eleven,) used to wrangle me into listening to The Cremation of Sam McGee.
I would demur and resist, but finally agree to listen, expression grumpy.
Naturally I am still very fond of that poem.
I’m with you. I had Wordsworth drummed into me at school and I fear it disabled the poetic bit of my brain for life. I found much of his work to be unhealthily obsessed with his lost childhood and very inward-looking. Trite at times even. Occasionally I find a line or two in a poem that articulates an idea for me that had remained stubbornly inchoate in my own head. Burns can do it, as can Blake. If I were forced to have a favourite poem it would have to be Sonnet 18. But thy eternal summer shall not fade…how I’d love to earn that accolade.
Frost
Sandburg
Parker
Nash
Hobhouse
Yeats
Wilde 
And Ben Johnson, Shelley, some Dickenson. Yeats, Marlowe, and Ogden Nash. I could keep going… 
e.e. cummings and Robert W. Service, and I like to sing Emily Dickenson to the the tune of “The Yellow Rose of Texas.”
I also like to sing “The Cremation of Sam Mcgee” to the tune of “Star of the County Down.”
And I once tried to sing “The Waste Land” to the tune of “Rocky Road to Dublin,” but I hurt myself.
And I’ll leave you with another Service poem that I like – The Ballad of Blasphemous Bill
Another philistine here. I somehow never got the whole poetry thing. Probably because it was rammed down my throat at school. How I can still appreciate Shakespeare I’ve no idea, the way he’s taught in school. shudder
I hate the way poetry seems to be pretentiously intoned in a very sombre manner. Radio 4 are brilliant at doing that. I love a good novel however.
I like Spike Milligan’s stuff but I suppose that’s more doggerel than poetry. The only other poem I ever liked was Philip Larkin’s ‘This Be The Verse’, probably 'cos it has a couple of rude words in it. How mature of me 
They f**k you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were f**ked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
To paraphrase Mark Twain, “I have attended poetry readings, whenever I could not help it, for most of my life. I am sure I know of no agony comparable to the listening to a poetry performance. By contrast kidney stones are but fleeting pleasures.”
Yes, and thank you for that. Not so long ago an Irishman was glowingly telling me of his discovery of Dickinson, and I mentioned that; you know, just in passing, like. He paused, thought a bit, got a black look on his face, spat out some choice words of a rather personal nature, told me he would never be able to read Dickinson again without The Yellow Rose Of Texas going thru his head, and that he whould hate me forever for it. 
Often Billy Collins seems like the poet for those that don’t like poetry.
Poking fun at the use of suddenly.
Tension by Billy Collins
The response to that should have been, “Oh, and speaking of roses, you know that Charles Foster Kane guy? Well, ‘Rosebud’ was his sled.'”
It was enough for me to bask in his ire, and smile. 
The great tragedy of Wordworth’s life is that he lived and went on writing well into his 80s.
Oh, both, then?
He did seem to peak early and then descend into not knowing tripe from poetry. I always think I can detect the seeds of that even in his good stuff. Wander’d lonely as a cloud misses the mark by miles (Cornish clouds never go alone and it’s even worse in the Lake District). And
“Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?” -awful stuff.
I admire the likes of Sibelius and Rossini who knew when to stop and then shut up for about forty years. 
Rumi…from The Reed Flute’s Song.
Listen to the story told by the reed,
of being separated.
"Since I was cut from the reedbed,
I have made this crying sound.
Anyone apart from someone he loves
understands what I say.
Anyone pulled from a source
longs to go back."
I love Rumi, and when I read the above poem for the first time, it made me remember why I love the Slow Air. Maybe Rumi happened upon an Irishman, in a dream of course, back there in 13th century Persia?
Still all and all I find it comforting to know that writing poetry is the highest risk profession in the literary world, in spite of some slipping through the cracks and living beyond their years…
You probably haven’t read enough poetry then. Lots of non-heavy, dark, somber stuff but you’re right most of it can be.