Ezra Pound writes in his editorial which headed your last number that “the two novels by Joyce and Lewis, and Mr. Eliot’s poems, are not only the most important contributions to English literature of the past three years, but are practically the only works of the time in which the creative element is present, which in any way show invention, or a progress beyond precedent work.” It is easy to make statements of this kind, but, having made them, a critic should tell us on what he bases his dictum. The trouble with criticism of art, today, is that it isn’t criticism. The critic writes statements of untempered liking or disliking, and does not trouble to support them with detailed reasons. We are simply supposed to take the critic’s word for the matter. I haven’t sufficient belief in the infallibility of Ezra Pound’s mind to require no substantiation of his statements. I have several faults to find with his methods of criticising poetry. He’s a bit too easily swayed by his personal emotions, in that regard. I happen to know that in an article of his, which appeared in _Poetry_, some time ago he omitted the name of a very good modern American poet, from the “American-Team” he was mentioning, merely because he has a personal dislike for that poet. He has also, too great a longing to separate poets into arbitrary teams, of best and worst. Poets are either black or white to him—never grey. In speaking of Harriet Monroe he says that she has conducted her magazine in a spirited manner, considering the fact that she is faced with the practical problem of circulating a magazine in a certain peculiar milieu. But he does not add that those are not the colors in which Miss Monroe, herself, comes forth. If she admitted that she was a practical woman, trying to print as much good poetry as she can, and still gain readers, there would only be the question of whether one believed that compromise is always the only method of assuring the existence of a magazine. But she refuses to admit that she is a serious compromiser. She stands upon a pedestal of utter idealism. Mr. Pound did not mention this aspect. His claim that Eliot is the only really creative poet brought forth during recent times is absurd. H. D., Fletcher, Marianne Moore, Williams, Michelson at his best, Carl Sandburg, and Wallace Stevens are certainly not inevitably below Eliot in quality of work. Eliot’s work is utterly original, attains moments of delicate satire, and digs into the tangled inner dishonesties of men. But many of the poets I have mentioned are as good in their own way as Eliot is in his, in addition to their being just as original as he. I have not Mr. Pound’s fondness for making lists, so I’m afraid I may have omitted the names of some American poets entitled to mention, even from my own limited view point. But I will say that at least the number of poets I have mentioned are fully the equals of Mr. Pound’s nominee for supreme honors—T. S. Eliot.