Of course I like poetry, but also of course I have to be difficult about it. My favorite poets in high school and college were, like, T.S. Eliot and John Donne, and I have basically not branched out much beyond Early Modern English and Early Twentieth Century Modernism. Which means that I’m a DEAD WHITE MALES asshole (surprise surprise), and I’m also always surprised to learn that other people ever got past World War II in their lit surveys. (I am old, and also I kind of intentionally had a Great Books education). So I have wide but pretty shallow exposure to most of the major poets; I basically have enough knowledge to fake my way through a conversation and pepper my prose with allusions that I can be confident aren’t too obscure.
As far as poets I’m enthusiastic about right now, my favorite recent discovery has been Mina Loy — I dunno if you saw the kick earlier this year where I got all worked up about her. But that doesn’t get me out of Modernism, just digs me down further into its obscure branches. I’m more or less at a point in my life where literature-wise I just want to circle around the 1920s obsessively (with about a decade of give on either side), and I get weird and whiney and obstinate about getting deeply into anything produced within my own lifetime.
My favorite Britney Spears song has been “Toxic” for many years, although “How I Roll” has been giving it really serious competition.