Status Updates From Poetry, Drama and Prose

As I read through his work chronologically, Yeats is becoming less and less compelling with each passing poem. His later works essentially boil down to, “woe is me. The woman I loved didn’t love me.” And then he sits around and complains about it all while complaining about how young people aren’t fascists and want a democratic, republic Ireland.
He’s kind of a whiney little boy

I have decided I want to learn more about poetry and appreciate it with an intimacy I have yet to afford it.

So I’m starting with everyone’s favourite Irish fascist of course.