Inspired by Jonathan Mayhew's naming of a pair of poetic fallacies, I'd like to propose a kind of Klein Bottle paradox of the "lyric I." In current poetic culture it is fashionable to eschew the first person as gauche & "sincere" in a sense where to be sincere is to be stupid &/or dishonest. Well, at least not hip. There is also, alas, a School of Sincerity in which the personal anecdote is related as sacred text. These two approaches to poetry stand glaring at each other like a couple of studs across a bar or -- an example I'm more familiar with -- a couple of terrier bitches staring each other down across the width of a kitchen. I take Oscar Wilde & Samuel Beckett to be profoundly sincere artists. They meant every word they wrote, often through the artifice of pretending that they didn't. Too often, the rejection of sincerity is itself an insincere pose, a stance taken out of fear of committing oneself to a position. As if one could step outside the self (or selves). As if that would be a good thing. At the same time, an indulgence of sincerity -- imposing the facts of one's experience on the poem because they are your experiences -- is not really a pose so much as a failure of self-consciousness. I would put these two faults, part aesthetic, part ethical, under the heading of sentimentality.